


10-2: Every Step You Take

by jcrowquill



Series: Spare the Angels [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Ghosts, Light Smut, M/M, Quickie, a little much-needed domesticity, alternate season 10, badass crowley, casefic, ghostly possession, light descriptions of gore, trigger warning: attempted suicide, trigger warning: brief description of stalking, unusual hunting party combination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-15 01:06:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 34,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1285489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jcrowquill/pseuds/jcrowquill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A haunting related to a 1980's stalking death brings the Winchesters to western Oklahoma, dangerously close to Malachi's base where a new threat awaits them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a longer series - please read the other fics first, as the relationships (and some character living/dead/angel/human statuses) aren't the same. :)

In a quiet town in southern Oklahoma, just north of Texas, a tall, sturdy man walks up a newly sealed driveway to a well-kept starter home.  He’s been watching the property for a few days and memorizing the times of day when the house’s sole resident comes and goes.  She’s a pretty thirty-something with no husband, no kids, and no pets.  She works at a department store in a shopping center about 20 miles out; her schedule is not consistent day to day, but week to week there is little variance in the shifts that she works and they paths that she traverses.

He's not usually this kind of guy, but since he dropped a package for her on his delivery route, he hasn't been able to think of anything else.

 _She’s very pretty_ , he thinks as he steps off of the driveway, bypassing the front walk to instead steal around to a side window.  The curtain are open a about an inch, through which he can see the soft champagne colored walls of her living room and the bluish glow of her television. At first glance, he doesn’t see her.  However, angling his body slightly, he manages to pick her out amidst the deep pile of multicolor blankets on the sofa.  Her dark hair is back in a soft ponytail and her sleepy brown eyes are fixed on the television.  

He likes watching her like this; he did the same thing the night before.  He watched her burning through a half-dozen episodes of some drama on Netflix, and he imagined that they were watching the show together.  He felt close to her then.  

Tonight he doesn’t feel the same way.  The window glass and several feet of carpet are between them.  Blankets, clothes.  There are so many layers of distance between them.  He watches her watching the same program as before, this time with a little carton of ice cream in her fine-boned brown hands, and he wants to be closer to her.  Licking his lips, he devises a plan, then walks back behind the front hedge and up onto the front stoop.

He waits for a moment, wondering if this can go the way that he has been imagining, then knocks on the door.  The first knock is tentative, the second is more firm.  Manly, yeah.  He feels better about that.  Confident.

It takes a moment for her to answer.  She first pulls back the gathered curtain that blocks the small inset window and then feels as though she recognizes him.  She can't quite place where she's seen him, but she knows that they've spoken.  That's enough to make her feel reasonably safe, so after a moment she opens the door several inches and peers at him through the space above the deadbolt.  

“Hey, Emily,” he says, and he realizes immediately that he shouldn’t have used her name.  They haven’t met; he only knows her name because he read it off of the package he'd delivered.  _Emily._   Emily Dwyer, the most beautiful name in the world for the most beautiful girl in the world.  

“Ah, have we met?” she asks critically, watching him untrustingly.

He justifies to himself that it isn’t him, it’s just just that women alone tend to mistrust men at night.  It made sense, really.  It wasn’t as though he hadn’t been standing in the flowerbed below her window for the last hour and watching her eat the remains of a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Half Baked. 

“Um, sort of.  I delivered a package to you last week, but, uh, no.  Not really.  No.  Can I, ah, come in and we can talk?

She looks for a moment as though she’s conflicted between politeness and common sense.  Common sense ultimately wins out, though.

“Why don’t you come by tomorrow afternoon and we can talk then?” she suggests, pushing the door slightly.

“No, I mean, I’d rather talk to you now,” he says, lifting his hand to grip the doorknob to prevent her from closing the door further.

“I don’t think that’s happening, good night.”

She pushes the door closed again with a quick, well-timed shove before he can even protest.  He blinks several times, wondering how that conversation had gone so wrong so quickly.  He is _fine_ , he is _normal_.  He is getting friendzoned by this dumb bitch - not even, really.  He isn’t even getting to be her friend, she’s just shoving him off like he’s worthless. _Does she think she’s better than me?_

He hears himself make an angry sound, then then bottom of his boot is colliding with her front door hard enough to break the lock and pop the hinges.  He shoves past the doorway and now-broken chain, pursuing her into the room.

He’s done this before, he thinks.  He doesn’t quite remember.  Emily’s not the first woman he’s watched from her window, but he doesn’t remember who else he's watched.  Still, it's familiar, like he is half-remembering a dream.  He drags his hand back through his dark blond hair, clenching his jaw as he pursues her to the back of the house.  He dimly hears her yelling, warning him to get out, begging him to leave her alone, and then making some cliche threat about what would happen if he hurt her.

He corners her in the kitchen and grabs her by the shoulders, pushing her back against the refrigerator door.  The handle knocks painfully against her spine, but she is more concerned with the steady, threatening weight of the man who’s pinning her in place.  She closes her eyes, turning her face away from his.

“Let me go!  Get out of my house!”

He opens his mouth to say something else, not sure yet what will come out.  It could be a harsh laugh, it could be an apology, it could be something dark.  His head feels full of dark right now and it’s choking out the light and narrowing his vision to only her full mouth and her terrified eyes.

He inhales in preparation of speech, but nothing comes out.  He is suddenly dragged away, yanked backwards by some unseen force that feels like cold hands.   Those same cold hands are suddenly inside him, penetrating his chest and abdomen, stabbing with icy fingers.  He screams as blood bubbles out of his mouth, thick red liquid mixed with frantic air, and all at once there is a spray of blood as his ribcage springs open like a beartrap in reverse.

He drops heavily to the floor with a wet thud and Emily can’t stop screaming.  
  


\-------------------------------------------------------

  
The Winchesters had been forced to acquire numerous skills for both economic reasons and pure survival.  In addition to hunting monsters, both boys were adept game hunters and fishermen.  They were pool hustlers and expert card players, both of whom had learned to count cards and stack a deck before they were in double digits.  They could sew up a wound and set a dislocated bone.  They knew how to remove evidence and dispose of bodies.  

They also knew more mundane things, like how to mend a torn shirt and which dryers at the laundromat would shrink their clothes the most.  They knew how to stretch twenty dollars and which items were better to buy in bulk.  They knew how to stay focused on a long drive and how to blend in with a crowd.

They also knew how to cut hair.  Men's hair, anyway.  Using the clippers to keep Dean's short hair tidy was easy; the elder Winchester usually took care of himself.  Sam, who had never looked good with shorter hair, was a bit more challenging, but Dean had gradually progressed from choppy bowl cuts to fairly sophisticated approximations of hairstyles from magazines.  In recent years he'd ribbed Sam more and more for his longer hair, but he didn't actually mind cutting it.

Personal grooming was something of a normalizing routine and a way to ground themselves no matter where they were; despite being rough and tumble near-transients for most of their lives, both men generally managed to have remarkably clean nails, well-kept hair, and smooth chins. 

Sam taught Gadreel to shave early on, figuring that it would be easier to keep him clean-shaven than to deal with the intricacies of beard maintenance.  The former angel is naturally tidy and almost frustratingly organized, but after a month of humanity, Sam notices that his beloved's hair is getting a bit scruffy.

To that end, he plunks the former angel down in a chair on the kitchen and fetches the case with the clippers.  Dean leans in the door to casually watch, arms crossed and a faint smile on his lips.

"All right, wow," Sam laughs as he runs his fingers appraising through the blond's thick, damp hair, "First haircut.  You have any preference on style here?"

Gadreel shakes his head, uncertain but not nervous.  He knows that hair is dead fiber, so the process won't hurt, but he isn't exactly sure what to expect.

"None at all? Not even like shorter, longer...?"

"Well, you can't exactly cut it longer," Gadreel points out, smiling.

"You know what I mean.  I mean, do you like your hair this length, do you want to grow it in, you want it basically how it was when you were an angel?"

He looks thoughtful, then replies, "I guess I liked it how it was."

"Okay, I'll clean up the back... Dean, you wanna do the longer parts?"

His brother nods, grinning, "Yeah, if you don't think you can handle it.  You want me to trim yours too, Rapunzel?"

"Yeah, sure," Sam snorts, not rising to the bait, as he snaps a plastic guard on the clippers.

He flips the switch, making Gadreel jump slightly at the sharp buzz.  The former angel's shoulders are rigid as his lover carefully drags the humming clippers up against the back of his neck past his hairline.  He feels the ticklish prickle of short strands of his hair falling on the back of his neck and shivers slightly.

"Hey, relax," Sam laughs, turning it off briefly to change to a shorter clip to clean up the bottom.  

"I'm fine," Gadreel assures him with a small nod and a quick smile. He doesn't know why this makes him tense; it's obviously not painful, not even uncomfortable, and he doesn't really even mind the sound. He realizes in surprise that he actually cares what his hair looks like; now that he is permanently matched to this body, he wants it to look good.  He trusts Sam, but he still feels a curious anxiety at the proceedings.

"Ah," Crowley says from the doorway as he gracefully slips past Dean and heads toward the fridge, "Didn't realize you were a hairdresser, moose."

"Hardly.  It's more Dean's thing, I'm just a guy with some clippers."

Crowley raises his eyebrows, then tugs the heavy door open to scout around for something to eat.  

"I prefer 'stylist,'" Dean says surprisingly good-naturedly.  While he would normally rail against any kind of feminizing terms, at the moment he's comfortable enough to make it a joke.

Sam finishes up the back, then nods to his brother, "Speaking of, you're up."

They trade places, but this time Dean has a pair of sharp little scissors from their kit.  He isn't into feathering or razoring or any of that crap, but he believes in the importance of having the right tools for any job.  

Crowley absently watches Dean comb and snip the former angel's soft blond hair, commenting, "I'd have you do mine, but I don't want a spiteful mohawk."

Dean smirks mischievously, "I think you could rock it."

He hasn't seen much of the now-human King of Hell lately; since Mrs. Tran's return, he has kept to himself almost entirely.  His grudging welcome in the bunker is owed entirely to a combination of his wealth of demonic information and the liability he presents if released into the wild.  With his knowledge of the current end of the world situation, he is exactly the sort of game piece that Abaddon would have loved to violently interrogate.  

For his part, the prospect of being caught by demons is the only thing that keeps Crowley there at all.  Now that he is human, he doesn't enjoy being the household pariah; he is surprisingly lonely for companionship and affection that he doesn't expect or deserve from anyone who already knows him.  However, with the Trans on a shopping excursion for clothing and shoes for Linda, he has ventured out to see what conversation he will be allowed.

"Mm, you think so, eh?" Crowley replies, pulling out the makings for a ham sandwich.  He notes that they are running low on mayonnaise and pauses briefly to add it to the grocery list that Dean has secured to the fridge door with a campy cartoon ghost magnet.  

"Oh yeah.  Chicks’d dig it too," Dean adds drily as he neatly clips Gadreel's hair above his ear.  The blond is much more relaxed with the scissors than the clippers, though he has become slightly restless and is shifting about distractingly.  Dean gives him a quick "hold still" before continuing.

"Chicks, huh? I'll keep that in mind," Crowley says with a nod as he constructs his sandwich.  

After a moment, Dean sets the scissors aside and picks up a soft brush to clean the hair off of Gadreel's neck and t-shirt.  He claps him on the shoulder and says, "Go check it in the bathroom and see if you want any changes, Stockholm."

Sam rolled his eyes like he did every other time Dean used that nickname and Crowley snorts.  Gadreel, per usual, misses the reference.

The blond climbs to his feet and slips out with a nod, then Sam takes his place in the old chair.

"Wish you'd quit calling him that."

"He likes having a nickname," Dean points out.

"You're a dick," his little brother informs him mildly and Dean just shrugs in response, smiling in his sneaky, boyish way.

"You shouldn't say that to the guy with the scissors."

Sam rolls his eyes again.

"So, am I just trimming this or what?  Anything more than that and you're gonna have to go get it wet."

"Just a trim's fine for now."

Dean nods and picks up the comb again and starts carefully combing out his brother's hair.  It's quick and ridiculously easy; Sam has the sort of smooth, tangle-free hair that most girls would kill for.  

"Oh," Charlie exclaims from the doorway, "Move it, Winchester.  I've been wanting to brush Sam like one of those freaking Barbie styling heads for ages."

Dean chortles gleefully, handing over the comb as Charlie hip-checks him out of the way.  She smiles cheerfully, her soft lips pressed in the middle in a way that always makes her look elfin and troublesome. Sam smiles as well; he knows that long hair is a vanity, but he likes having it.  Brush cuts didn’t flatter his pointed features, and when his hair was mid-length it had a tendency to curl or stick up from several prominent cowlicks. 

“Bet you can put this in a ponytail,” Charlie says brightly, setting the comb down for a moment  so that she can gather Sam’s hair in both hands and pull it back at the nape of his neck. She laughs a little and shakes her head, when several of the shorter pieces from the front slip free from her fingers.  She releases it all, flinging it forward around his face as though he was a supermodel on a shampoo ad, laughing, “Well, almost.  Soon.”

Sam laughs comfortably, tipping his head back a few degrees as Charlie resumes gentling the comb through his hair.  Girls just do it differently.  While Dean’s not exactly rough and generally seems to take some care not to pull, he’s never had more than an inch or two of hair.  As a result, he has no idea how to avoid Sam’s (admittedly few) snarls or how to make it a pleasant experience.

“All right, all right… that’s enough.  You two can schedule a sleepover and braid hair and talk about boys, but I wanna get this done,” Dean says, nudging her out of the way again.

“I should have you trim mine too,” Charlie says, gesturing to her own short, punky style.

“I don’t do girl hair,” he says, shaking his head.  He carefully begins trimming the ends of Sam’s hair, trying to clip the split ends without sacrificing too much length.  It’d been a few months since Sam had taken care of his hair, though, and the trials and angelic possession had taken a surprisingly visual toll.  

“Come on, last person who cut it was a Munchkin.  Like, a legit, literally from Munchkin-land Munchkin.  Not exactly haute couture goin’ on here, Dean.”

“Nu-uh, no.”

“Because I'm a girl, huh?  Right now I can’t decide if you’re a chicken or a pig,” she says, smirking as she watches the damaged ends of Sam’s hair rain down on the floor.  

“Try ‘cock’,” Crowley suggests drily.

“Not so into those,” Charlie laughs, pantomiming playing a musical sting on a drum set.  

Dean and Sam laugh immaturely, almost giggling, and sound like teenage boys.  Both are comfortable, and the elder Winchester continues to smile for a moment longer as he expertly trims his brother's hair.  At this moment, things are okay.  The daily earthquake would bring him back down, and there was the fact that Dorothy was being a miserable cuss... Ten minutes from now, the world might implode or someone might die, but right now everything is fine.

Gadreel walks back in to join them, his hair finger-tussled into a style that reminds him of Castiel's constantly wind-blown bed head.  The difference was that Castiel's awkward style seemed less intentional and more the product of haphazard flight.

"Good?" Dean asks, his eyes flicking up quickly before he resumes his own task.

"Yeah," he answers, smiling mellowly as he takes a seat on the tile floor at Sam's feet, "Thank you both."

"Hey Gadreel, don't you think Dean should do my hair too?" Charlie asks.

The former angel looks between Dean and Charlie, then shakes his head, "I don't think that my opinion on the matter is necessary."

"Smart man," Crowley comments, smiling as Charlie pulls a sour face.  

Gadreel smiles broadly, tipping his head back against Sam’s knee to look first at him, then at Crowley.  Of all of the lively inhabitants of the bunker, Gadreel is the only one who doesn’t have a grudge against the recovered demon; even Dorothy, who hadn’t met him prior to his conversion, dislikes him because of her friendship with Kevin.  The former angel, who had known him briefly as the captive king of hell, always greeted him civilly, often conversationally.

It’s strangely refreshing, and he soaks in small, mundane interactions with a hidden, fervent eagerness that would have surprised the Winchesters if they knew.  

Charlie jumps when her phone buzzes in her pocket, then pulls it out. She dismisses a handful of notifications from Twitter, then taps the little crescent moon app icon on her her home screen.

Dean gives Sam's hair one last check before stepping back and saying, "Right, done.  Anyone else, other than Charlie, need anything?"

"Charlie needs something though!" the redhead protests, looking up at Sam as he climbs to his feet and combs his fingers through his hair to check the length. 

"Hey com'mon, I don't wanna accidentally leave you looking like a dude," Dean grumbles, tucking the clippers and scissors back into the case.

"No, no.  We've got a job - weird death in Oklahoma. Looks like a ghost or a werewolf."

"Your phone alerted you?" Sam asks curiously.

"Yeah, wrote an app.  It skims national news and police blotters for certain keywords, and cross-references them with lore and local history to generate a Monster Score. It pings me for scores over 40."

"That's... freaking awesome," Dean comments, surprised.  

Charlie glows at the praise, but downplays it with a casual toss of her head, "It's not perfect, I mean I'm sure there's stuff it misses and it gets false positives when there are hurricanes or serial killers, but y'know it's better than just trying to skim all the papers, especially for these podunky towns..."

"No, no, it's really cool," Sam affirms, "What's the deal on this one...? Ghosts and werewolves are pretty different things to guess."

Charlie made a face, scrunching her nose thoughtfully as she skimmed the alert, "Well, there was a home invasion and the guy's chest was ripped open."

"Is his heart missing?" Gadreel asked, earning a rewarding touch on the shoulder from Sam.  The blond smiles just a little at the unspoken praise.

"It doesn't say... But I'm guessing that it's why it got flagged werewolf."

"And why'd it flag ghost?" Dean asks as he retrieves the broom from between the wall and refrigerator.  Crowley naturally moves out of his way, easing back to slouch against a different counter as he eats his sandwich.

"Ah, the house has history.  Looks like a guy murdered a girl there like forty-," she pauses to do the math, "-eight years ago, then camped out in her house for a week after before he shot himself.  Not the first murder since either."

"Sounds ghosty to me," Dean agrees, sweeping up the hair into a dustpan.  He knew that Sam would do it if he didn't, but he also knows that Sam would do a half-assed job.

For all that Dean prides himself on being the man of the house (or bunker), he's the one who cares about tidiness and keeps the shelves stocked with food and household essentials like Ziplock bags, dish soap, and toilet paper.  It's a surprising part of his own nature, but it's also well-honed pragmatism: Charlie would be perfectly happy eating takeout on paper plates for the rest of her life, Sam is still used to being taken care of, Crowley is too reclusive, Gadreel is too clueless, and Kevin and Dorothy just don't really care.  He has high hopes for Linda, but isn't so presumptuous as to expect her to take over "mom" duties after only a few days.

Not that he'd complain if she got into a fit of dusting or grocery shopping. 

In any case, at the moment he just needs to set the kitchen to rights. Hair in a food prep area was a huge NO.

"We can head out after lunch, yeah? Sam asks, rubbing Gadreel's shoulder lightly.

"Yeah," Dean agrees, "Two of us should be able to handle it in a day or two."

"I want to go," Charlie informs them, mostly addressing the comment to Dean because he's the one who's more likely to object.  While she secretly loves being the "little sister," her overprotective "big brother" sometimes steps all over her notions of feminism and self-sufficiency.

To her surprise, Dean just shrugs, "Yeah, okay.  Pack your crap and be ready in an hour."

"Can I come?" Gadreel asks tentatively.

Before Sam can look for an excuse, Dean shakes his head, "Nope, not leaving Crowley home alone with the Trans."

"Dorothy will be here," Charlie points out.

"Yeah, and Kevin's got her wrapped around his little finger.  Crowley's a dick, but he's human and I don't want him getting killed."

"I hardly think they're that ambitious," Crowley says drily, "And in any case, take me with.  I could use some fresh air."

Dean raises his eyebrows, "A full back seat sounds like hell."

"Only Hell sounds like Hell," the former demon reminds him.

The hunter takes a deep breath and lets it out  in a short, nasal huff.  Tipping the contents of the dustbin into the trash, he says, “Y’know, s’been awhile since Sam and I went on a hunt on our own. What d’you think, Sammy?”

Sam laughed, lifting his hands, “You’re in charge.”

Dean looks at him as though he would like to kill him, “Okay.  Well, I’m taking Sam plus two.  You guys duke it out and figure out who’s going.  If you’re coming, be packed and ready to go in an hour.  


	2. Chapter 2

Arakiel is completely aware of his own vulnerability as he parks the car outside of a well-kept cattle ranch.  His broken wings have started to heal outside of his prison, but he still can't fly any appreciable distance.  Even if he could, carting along his alternate vessel halves his already pitiful reach.  An angel of his age and strength should have the stamina and grace to leap thousands of miles in an instant and cross the galaxy in moments; hobbed as he was, he would be lucky to go more than fifty miles at a stretch, making him easy prey if he had to flee.

He's not a soldier, either, and never has been.  Despite having had a blade since he felt the first stirrings of his full-formed awareness, the metal hilt still feels alien in his vessel's hand.  He sits back, hands still resting on the wheel, and reaches over to lightly touch Alison's upper arm to wake her.

She shifts groggily, placing herself quickly in the now-familiar car.  She sits up tiredly, stiff all over from several days' drive.

"We here?"

Arakiel nods, "Yes, we are.  I have decided that I would like for you to wait here for me."

"For how long?"

"Until I tell you that it's safe."

"So is this dangerous for me?" There is a slight upward movement to her eyebrows, though the rest of her expression is intentionally placid.  Despite that he knows her every expression and its meaning, and that he knows the content of her brain and the paths that her quick little mind takes, she feels the need to hide fear in front of him.  She hasn't shown any strong emotion, save boredom, in the days that they have traveled together.

He looks at her consideringly, "I'm not sure.  The angels here could hurt you, but I'm more concerned about one of them taking you as a vessel."

He isn't surprised to see her perk up slightly at that.  Arakiel is completely aware that it isn't love for him that motivates her desire to be his vessel.  It isn't that she cares about being Arakiel's vessel in particular; in fact, she actually resents being a spare.

"Could _any_ angel do that?"

The angel looks at her with his full lips pressed in vague judgment, "If you said yes."

Alison smiles back charmingly, "Well, don't you worry about me then."

Arakiel closes his eyes wearily and exhales through his nose in a very human gesture that seemed to be hard coded into this body.  Annoyance was the easiest expression to communicate in a human language. 

Alison is a strong vessel - even though she is unsuited to Arakiel's permanent use, the fact that she can contain him at all puts her into a very select group of humans.  It's possible that a younger or less powerful angel could use her indefinitely, making her a very desirable vessel .  He isn't willing to give her up as his alternate, which makes him willing to lie or exaggerate to prevent her from knowing how valuable she is as a vessel.

"If another angel takes you, it will burn you out and leave you dead without a thought... and if it doesn't take you, it might just kill you outright."

She isn't sure if he's telling the truth, but uncertainty is enough to quash her ambition.  She wants power and she fascinated by the possibilities of unbroken angels, but death isn't high on her priority list.  She worries her lower lip between her teeth, then nods.

"Is it safer to say no or yes, if someone asks?"

The angel looks at her calculatingly, weighing his own benefits against her safety.  He is possessive of her as an object, as she is possessive of him as a power source; they are equally matched in that regard, as both sides of their relationship are based on somewhat mercenary desires.  There is also a certain fondness and obligation, as well as a genuine wish to spare the other pain, and though it is secondary it still tempers his response.

“It would likely be safer to say yes; otherwise, there is a possibility that they will kill you or torture you into agreeing to serve as a vessel.”

“I thought possession required consent,” she says in surprise.

“It doesn’t mean that you can’t be tricked or forced into giving it,” he tells her quietly.

"That's not consent."

He shrugs slightly, “Angels rely on words rather than emotion, we think in absolutes - if you say 'yes,' you've meant 'yes.'  The thing to remember is that you can force an angel out at any time by withdrawing your consent, but you have to retain some control of your mind to do so.  If someone does take you, you should fight to remain conscious, and then eject them when you see me so that I can help you.”

She nods slowly, taking that in.  She knows that she had been partly conscious while she’d been possessed by Arakiel; she remembers quite a bit, even if she hadn’t been able to control the movements of her body.  Even so, she isn’t sure if it was because Arakiel had let her, or if it was because she herself was somehow remarkable.

“So wait here,” Arakiel finally says, pulling the keys from the ignition and putting them into her hands, “You may drive somewhere else if you feel threatened.  
Though it won’t really help."

Alison licks her lips, then chews the center of her lower lip.  It’s a nervous habit, and one that she sometimes does until she tastes blood.  Curling her fingers around the keys, she glances up toward the ranch, and then back to her angel before nodding again.  She isn’t scared, exactly, but the situation is stressful, both for her and for her angel.

Without saying anything else, Arakiel climbs out of the car and approaches the house.  There are a few angels lounging about and talking on the large, well-kept porch.  They are an eclectic lot, wearing all sorts of people and all sorts of clothing because they had come from all over the world.  Many of them seem unsuited to a Texas ranch; Arakiel finds himself thinking of how Alison had pulled off her heavy, bloody coat because of the southern heat.  By contrast, several of the angels are dressed too warmly or too formally to pass as normal humans in this environment.

He nods to them casually, noting that most of them are too young to recognize him.  He can tell by their eyes that they recognize him as an ancient angel, though he can also see their eyes traveling over his intangible, incomplete wings.  He had tried to preen the ratty feathers back into shape, but knows that he doesn’t present the image that he wants to present; he knows that he looks moth-eaten and damaged, despite that any angel can see that the creature coiled into the young, brown-skinned vessel is mind-bendingly huge and powerful even in its weakened state.

One of the stronger angels rises to his feet and lifts a hand to indicate that Arakiel should stop.  Out of etiquette rather than fear, he doesn't approach or draw his sword.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” the angel says, cocking his head to the side.

“Arakiel,” he offers by way of introduction, nodding slightly in a polite, informal version of a bow.  To assert his angelic position, when he continues on, he chooses to speak Enochian, “I’ve come to see Malachi.”

His accent identifies his rank and age, immediately putting him above the other angels even without any showy assertions.  Due to the specificity of language, he is impossible to misunderstand and his sincerity is difficult to doubt.  His statement leaves no question as to the reasons for his visit; he has come to offer his service to Malachi.

The other angel nods, then answers, “Then do come inside.”

He has intuitively deferred to the subservient dialect, despite that he doesn’t accept Arakiel as his authority.  He doesn’t know him; his name is just a name he’s heard in mostly-forgotten legend, but whose significance he doesn’t know.  Still, there is a degree of deference afforded to elder angels and even the most headstrong young cherubim wouldn’t dare show disrespect to someone as old and powerful as this broken angel in his straight-backed vessel.

Arakiel brushes past him and into the house, where he finds Malachi almost immediately.  Unlike the other angels, the leader of this faction recognizes him immediately and smiles broadly.  He speaks English to him, “Arakiel, what a wonderful surprise.”

“Malachi,” he acknowledges with a nod.

“Where have you been for the past few months, brother dear?  To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

“I came to offer my sword and intellect to your cause in exchange for protection,” Arakiel says, never one to beat around the bush.  It isn’t a lack of cunning or strategy; he simply likes to initiate combat on the first round if necessary, rather than letting his opponent take the time to set up an attack.

Malachi nods slowly, watching him as though to read his honesty from his body language.  Though a human would see just a man standing before him, he can see his brother’s tattered wings and he can interpret the subtle gestures of his angelic limbs.

“How are your wings?” he asks casually, continuing to speak English even as Arakiel speaks to him in Enochian.

“Healing.”

“Ah, I see.  They must have been even worse before.  It sure is curious, you prisoners being sprung from your cages.”

“Who else was released?”  Arakiel asks quickly.

“I heard Gadreel was about, but I haven’t seen him since the gates were re-opened.  I don’t know that he survived.”

“But no one else?”

Malachi’s laugh is short and verges on cruel, “No one you care about.”

Arakiel feels a surge of quiet fury, both at that particular jibe and at the disrespect that Malachi is showing him through his tone and body language.  He feels the flame of his grace brighten for a moment; his jaw tightens almost painfully as the emotional response is translated to his vessel.  But all at once, he lets it go.  He forces himself to release the tension in his body and recenter his grace.  Blinking slowly at the other angel, Arakiel murmurs, “That’s a pity.  Now, you’ve not acknowledged my barter.”

“Mm,” Malachi replies, smiling to himself, “It is an interesting offer.  You lack military prowess and no one remembers you now, but you are quite a charismatic angel, aren’t you?  Even damaged as you are, you burn brightly…”

Arakiel stares at him mildly, “A yes or no would suffice.”

“I would say yes.  Our numbers are limited and we do want to put an end to Bartholomew’s faction.  I feel as though you might provide an alternative to simply killing them.  You are a smooth talker, Arakiel.  I saw you manipulate my guard into walking you in just by asserting that you had the right.  You learned from the best, no doubt.”

“So you want me to play your recruitment officer?” he asks dubiously.

“Yes… though I think we’ll need you to demonstrate your loyalty first,” the rebel leader muses, “I have no way of knowing that someone else hasn’t bought your slick tongue to undo my plans.”

Because they are angels, there’s no innuendo in the statement.  It isn’t that they don’t understand the concept or don’t occasionally find it humorous; to the contrary, they both find the workings of the human body and the lengths to which humans will go for a bit of pleasurable company extremely amusing.  However, in a terse discussion like this, which Malachi has forced to remain in human language, they are speaking as plainly and directly as possible.  
Arakiel sighs lightly, then asks, “How do you want for me to do that?”

“Just a small act of fealty,” the other angel replies smoothly, “It might be a bit of a challenge for someone who’s been locked up for a millenium, but I think that you can handle it.”

“What do you want?”

“There is a small group of hunters who are interfering with our war.  I’d just like for you to take of them for me,” he explains.

The ragged angel doesn’t know exactly what a hunter is, and the English definition doesn’t mean anything to him.  “One who hunts.”  _One who hunts **what**_ , _exactly?_ he wonders.  While he doesn’t want to ask for clarification, he likewise doesn’t want to agree to an impossible task.

“Hunters?” Arakiel repeats questioningly.

Malachi looks at him as though disappointed that he hadn’t known the word through the context, then repeats it in Enochian.

The Enochian word translates to the equivalent of an extensive encyclopedia entry.  Hunters, humans who hunt supernatural creatures with the intentions of protecting other humans while maintaining a certain degree of population-wide ignorance of the problem.  Early hunters primarily focused on demons, though ghosts and, later, human-based monsters became hunting targets as well.  Arakiel knows this word and this concept, though he would likely not recognize the back-woodsy, well-equipped murder scientists now involved in the lifestyle as being the “hunters” he’d known before his incarceration.

“Mm,” he hums in understanding, “Who are they?”

“Sam and Dean Winchester.”

Arakiel is surprised by that.  Like all angels, he knows those names.  He’s known them since thousands of years before the humans in question had even been born; Malachi is asking him to kill Michael and Lucifer’s true vessels.  From listening to other angels, he is aware that the Apocalypse has passed without incident, but it doesn’t change the fact that the Winchesters were something special.

“Are you sure that’s wise?”

“They’ve missed their moment,” Malachi says, shrugging, “They’re no longer important l and can only cause complications for us.  Instead, I’d like to make them useful.  They’re very well-known among the hunting community and very well-liked.  When you kill them, I would like for you to give the credit to Bartholomew to turn the other hunters against him.”

He’s a good strategist; while it was true that a handful of hunters would be keen to avenge Sam and Dean, that isn’t who he wants to put on Bartholomew’s trail.  Arakiel wouldn’t know that the Winchesters were beloved to Castiel, nor would he know that the little military grunt had been transformed into a powerful archangel.  Setting Castiel on Bartholomew would be a major tactical advantage. Arakiel would likely be the first to fall to Castiel’s sword, but that is a sacrifice that Malachi is more than willing to make.  

“Fine.  So my position in your party would be guaranteed by this show of loyalty?”

“Yes,” he affirms, smiling, “I give you my word.”

Arakiel nods thoughtfully, “I agree to these terms.”

“I would also like to be given the vessel who accompanied you,” Malachi says, meeting his eyes, “As a gift.”

“The terms have already been decided and I feel no need to curry your favor with gifts.  She is my secondary vessel, for when this one has become too damaged by my grace.”

Malachi smirks.  He can feel the girl in the car and he knows intuitively that she is a strong vessel, just as resilient as the sturdy, broad-shouldered man before him.  Arakiel has no designated family tree and no "true vessel" because other angels slaughtered his bloodline during his during his imprisonment.  It would take the strongest vessel to contain him now, the sort normally reserved for archangels.  While both of his temporary vessels could easily contain any of the angels in Malachi’s entourage, even Malachi himself, neither can withstand his blazing grace for long.  It gives the rebel leader a tickle of pleasure to think that he has such a powerful angel seeking his protection.

“It’s an interesting limit you’ve set,” he comments.

  
\----------------------------------------------------------------

  
Dean is not pleased with the final arrangement - he and Sam occupy their usual places in the front while Gadriel tucks his long body into the seat behind the driver and Crowley sits smugly to his right.  The story is that the three contestants played rock, paper, scissors.  However, Dean knows that it isn’t the case and that Charlie gracefully bowed out because she “had to talk to Dorothy about something.” The brutish, pigheadedly heterosexual side of him hopes that was a euphemism while the protective big brother hopes that everything is alright between the two women.

In any case, the hunting party is unusual and he’s not keen.  For one thing, he’s not a huge fan of bringing Crowley on hunts.  While he is obviously a different man than the disgusting, opportunistic demon that he’d been, that doesn’t mean that he’s not smarmy as hell.  For another, he’s pretty sure that it means that he’ll be bunking in with the former King of Hell; they don’t trust him on his own and there is no way Sam is going to part ways with Gadreel.

It wouldn’t be so bad if he could just put a tidy salt line across the floor to keep him on his side of the room, but the skeevy bastard is completely human now.  It also means that he won’t be getting any angel action, which is the true tragedy of the trip. Matters in heaven and research on earth have kept the two apart for several days, which puts Dean on edge and makes him irritatingly aware of every lingering glance and smile between his brother and his stupid boyfriend.

He taps his fingertips on the steering wheel along with the drumbeat of the radio, glancing at the rear-view mirror reflection to see what his entourage is up to.  Crowley is looking out the window with a subtle smile that is very difficult to read and Gadreel is buried in his book.  _What a boring bunch._

"Here we go," Dean comments, "Good Old West Buddahfuck, Oklahoma."

"I thought we were going to Goodwell," Gadreel remarks, looking up from his book.

Dean glances over at his brother, smirking a little.  Sam, already laughing a little and drawing mental comparisons between Gadreel and his archangel sibling, peers into the back and replies, "We are, Dean was just joking."

The blond takes it in stride, just nodding and returning to his book without further comment.  It's easy sometimes for Sam and Dean to forget how intelligent Gadreel actually is because his responses were often naive or literal.  They had the same issue with Castiel, who was even further removed from human humor and pop culture references; Dean had gotten used to it, but there had been a few harsh arguments early in their relationship when the angel had called him out for talking down to him.

"So since it's still light out, I assume we're going to head directly to investigate," Crowley pipes up, speaking for the first time in a few hours.  

Dean's shoulders tighten reflexively at the the sound of his smooth, accented voice, "Yeah, that's the plan."

"And you don't think that four Feds for a murder, even a rather grisly one, seems a touch excessive."

Gadreel, who's gone on exactly one hunt which also involved four hunters posing as federal agents, doesn't see the problem.  He looks over at Crowley and states, "I'm a intern."

Crowley blinks slowly, meeting Dean's eyes in the rear view mirror.  Dean shrugs.

"Right.  Well, I think three and an intern seems a bit much.  Perhaps we could be more productive, and less dodderingly conspicuous, if we split up and tackled this in pairs."

"And you're calling the shots now?" Dean asks.

"I'm just offering... a little suggestion," he deflects smoothly, the corner of his expressive mouth quirking up slightly, "You and moose could get into the town records, I could take blondie here and check out the house."

"Former King of Hell and Captain Clueless-"

"Thanks, Dean," Gadreel interjects drily, to pretty much everyone's surprise.

"The two of you," Dean continues, feeling a surprising little bit of warmth rise in his cheeks at being scolded, "Alone.  On a hunt."

"Yes," the reformed demon affirms.

"Not a chance."

"I don't have any objections," Gadreel says, looking over at Sam as though for some kind of confirmation.  Though he is intimately aware of Sam's disposition toward Crowley from having spent time in his mind, he doesn't carry the same prejudices with him.  To the contrary, he sees Crowley as another supernatural creature made human and forced to start out fresh, and to that end he is willing to trust him.

"Ah," Sam says uncertainly, "I don't know if it's a good idea."

"Oh come on," Crowley insists.

"I would like to try it," Gadreel insists quietly.

"I just don't-"

"I think I would benefit from investigating without your close supervision," the former angel says with surprising firmness.

"In case you missed that, mother hen, he's saying he'd like a little space," Crowley translates.

When the Gadreel doesn't immediately refute this, Sam's eyebrows flick up expressively, "Oh. Wow.  Well, okay... Fine."

"'Well okay fine?' Really?" Dean repeats, making a face at his brother, "How whipped are you?"

The younger hunter glowers at him, "He has a point, Dean.  He needs to learn to hunt without us hanging over him-"

"'Cause you're totally about to let him go off on his own-"

"Dean, seriously, I think they can handle it."

"Even if I thought Stockholm here was up for it, I don't trust his majesty there yet.  Nu-uh.  Best compromise is gonna be letting them take the lead and you and I can hang back and check out other stuff on site."

"Yeah, okay," Sam says with a quick nod, glancing back at Gadreel, this time for his approval.  The blond favors him with a fond smile that makes Dean want to smack both of them.

 _Thank God Cas and I aren't like that_ , he thinks just a little bitterly, shifting his grip on the steering wheel restlessly before following the GPS' shrill instruction to turn right.

To his credit, Crowley brings a certain charming credulity to his role as supervising agent and mentor.  When he mimics an American accent, it sounds remarkably like the hard, nasal voice of Boston.  It's surprisingly accurate and actually suits his easy social grace well.  Agent Alegheri (as in _Dante_ Alegheri, author of _Inferno_ , Crowley had told Dean unnecessarily) and his intern soon charm local law enforcement into full cooperation.

"So what're you thinking actually happened here?" Crowley asks conversationally, looking over at where forensic examiners were taking a final smattering of photographs.

"Don't quite know.  Whole thing's pretty weird," the lead detective says, shaking his head, "Ms. Dwyer said it was just the two of them, that he forced his way in right before his chest just split open.  I thought it sounded dodgy, maybe self-defense gone wrong, but forensics says blood spatters don't implicate her."

"Where is Ms. Dwyer now?" Crowley asks politely.

"Either the station or still at the hospital - not sure she's done bein' questioned.  She was in shock earlier, think she mighta blacked out and missed what happened."

"Entirely possible; home invasions are very traumatic."

"How about him?" Gadreel begins, nodding to the body on the floor.  He has an inhuman tolerance for gore and hardly seems affected by the sight or smell of the man's open abdomen.  He adds, "Got any priors?"

He says the line surprisingly naturally - it's one of those bits of language that Charlie taught him when she was using procedural cop shows to coach him on being a convincing agent.

"Nah.  Squeaky clean.  His girlfriend said he'd been a bit squirrelly the last few days, but he seems pretty normal.  FedEx guy, lived in the same apartment for five years, dated the same girl for two.  Regular schedule, regular guy."

"Strange," Gadreel comments, watching as the police begin to carefully shift the corpse into a sturdy black body bag.

"So you've got a full ID?" Gadreel asks.

"Yeah, Matt Landon.  36."

Crowley nods, "Fine work thus far, gentlemen.  Truly a pleasure to see such efficient local boys.  I will retrieve my other lackeys and we will get out of your hair for now."

Gadreel glances over to the other two hunters, noting with surprising pleasure that Dean makes a face when Crowley calls his "subordinates" over with a whistle, like dogs.  For some reason, he finds that he enjoys seeing Dean being ordered around; he didn't realize before how pleasurable petty emotion could be and doesn't feel guilty learning it now.  The hunters grimace, followed by a forced, obedient smile, makes Gadreel smile as well.

His gaze catches on a photo of Emily Dwyer, their star witness, with what looks like her mother and sister.  They're all smiling in the picture, beautiful with that temporary agelessness that comes with pleasure.  He feels a strange little prickle in his chest, a chilly brush of something, and suddenly thinks _She's very pretty_.

He looks back to the police chief and asks, "Would you please have someone call Agent Peverett when Ms. Dwyer is sent home?  He mentioned that he would like to ask her a few questions."

"Yeah, sure," he replies.

Gadreel pulls out one of Sam's business cards, then flips it over and scribbles his own phone number and assumed name on the back, explaining, "If he doesn't pick up, please call me and I'll make sure one someone responds immediately."

The officer nods, accepting the card that Gadreel offers him, "Sure."

With a little nod that has the stilted formality of a bow, he turns and walks over to meet the other hunters.  

As they walk out to the car, Dean holds his phone over to Sam. The smudgy, backlit screen displays a surreptitiously snapped photo of a parcel in a waste paper basket.

"Think you could poke around and see if our guy's the one who delivered that?"

"Yeah, shouldn't be too hard," Sam says agreeably, squinting at the tracking number barely legible in the photo.

"You heard that bit?" Crowley asks, surprised.

"Yep," Dean affirms minimally as he pulls the car door closed and waits for his hunting companions to climb in.

"Didn't realize you had subsonic hearing."

"Yeah."

'How was the EMF?" Gadreel asks, settling into his seat.  His dark eyes are slightly unfocused, even as he looks at Sam.  The reserved adoration that usually glows from his expression is cool, giving him an appearance of almost indifference.

"High... but it's harder in the suburbs, y'know, since there are so many things that could set it off.  I do think it's a ghost though... Should be pretty routine, actually."

"Always a pleasure," Dean laughs.

"City records office'll be closed by now, but tomorrow morning we can look up the names of the people who got died there before-"

"Bet Charlie's already got that," his brother interjects.

"Yeah, but the plots and stuff'll probably be in hard copy files rather than online since it was almost thirty years ago.  Anyway, we can, probably catch up with the girl who saw it happen, then do a salt and burn tomorrow night around dusk...?"

"Sounds good..."

Crowley nods, leaning against the window subtly to watch the colors blooming across the sky.  It is warmer this far south, but it is still an uncommonly cold winter; it lends a different quality to the sky and the way the light bled from the horizon.

"What's dinner?" Dean asks, "Order in, eat out?"

There is an obscene joke there, but Crowley leaves it alone, knowing he'll be sharing a room with the elder, more insecure Winchester brother.  _Amazing how he can bang an angel for years and still be so up tight._

"I could go for a hot meal that's still hot by the time I eat it," Sam says decisively, "I think we passed a little Italian place near the off ramp."

\-------------------------------------

  
Abaddon is beginning to consider other possibilities.  Cut off from Hell and her army, she finds herself restless and unmoored; she knows that at the moment, she is queen of the underworld in name only.  There is a strong possibility that new factions have organized themselves behind the brimstone gates, and that she will have to devour and dismember a good many usurping underlings before she can regain full control of Hell.  A queen without a kingdom is not a queen at all, and a general without an army is worthless.  

She is frustrated by the loss of her angels.  She'd worked so hard, set aside her preferred method of ruthless violence briefly in favor of Crowley-style seduction.  She'd gotten nine of them to give themselves over to her completely.  Nine foolish angels who thought that they were pledging military fealty and agreeing to fight for a demon as angels, rather than very _literally_ signing over their swords.  They didn't realize that their swords symbolized their grace and that their grace would be traded for black smoke and sulphur. Nine Knights of Hell under her direction would have been enough to decimate mankind and cull the heavenly host.

Instead seven of those angels are trapped on the other side of that door, one is dead at Castiel's hands, and one is in hiding.  Arakiel, who already had one foot in the pit, had refused her.

Well, _that_ could be changed when she found her.  She would cut out that angel's grace and shove a roiling beast night down her pretty little slit throat.  That would change her mind pretty quick, now wouldn’t it?

She's angry now and it makes her vicious.  The demon is close to the surface, contorting her outward appearance.   Her fury seethes and swells.  She doesn't hide it.  She walks down a Minnesota street in full view of the men and women leaving work and the children playing on the sidewalk.

She slaughters anyone who screams, which is almost everyone.  She smiles, a hideous thing, for a camera and goads its owner to post it online, though the horror of her demonic face has already burned out the circuits and turned the screen a dead, permanent black.

"Mm, too bad," she purrs flirtatiously as she rips out his throat.

She has nothing to fear and no need to hide; an immortal thing need only fear other immortal things and there certainly weren't any of those brave enough to face her in this mood.

  
\-------------------------

  
Dean has literally drawn a line on the carpet with masking tape to designate which portions of the hotel room belong to him, which belong to Crowley, and which are considered common space.

Crowley spends several minutes antagonizing his unwilling roommate by first inching past, then boldly stepping over, and then childishly hopping back and forth across the border between his and Dean's respective territories.  Dean tries to ignore him, but finds his jaw tightening to the point of sending jolts of pain zinging through his teeth.

"Would you go freaking shower or watch tv or something?" he finally snaps, and with a short laugh, the former demon bundles himself off to the shower with a change of clothes and a parting shot about Winchester-sanctioned nudity.

The hunter stands in the center of the room, quietly seething to himself.  He listens to the sounds of Crowley's clothes hitting the floor, then the drag and swish of the shower curtain, the rushing flood from the tap, the hiss as the water transfers itself from the faucet to the shower head, and finally the change in pressure as the water hits a sturdy body before dripping to the floor.  He’s used to sharing a hotel room and he knows what to listen for to confirm that he actually has a few minutes privacy.

Nonetheless, he waits a moment longer to ensure that the deposed King of Hell is actually in the shower before sending up a fervent plea for his personal archangel's company.

When the angel appears, Dean doesn't give him opportunity to speak.  He instead flattens the smaller man up against the door, crushing his vessel between his body and the worn metals as he catches his mouth in a hard, expositionless kiss.

It reminds him of their early days together, when he'd been simultaneously ashamed of wanting the angel and desperate to be near him.  Back then, he would have viciously denied that he was interested, even directly to Castiel himself, but it didn't stop him from stealing kisses at any opportunity.  They worked out how two six foot tall men could comfortably fuck in the back seat of the Impala, they'd mastered the art of perfect three minute head.  They managed to be all over each other nearly constantly, in brief increments, without detection, for almost four months before Castiel had finally demanded an explanation.

Even though that was years ago, it is easy for the archangel to fall into their old habit.  He hears the shower running and instantly knows the situation; though he doesn't know what Dean wants exactly, he meets his forceful kiss with equal enthusiasm, twining his tongue about his and rapidly sliding his hands down to grip his hips and pull him up against him firmly.

Dean makes a quiet sound against his mouth that might be a word, but it's impossible to tell.  Castiel kisses him again, swiping his tongue along the hunter's full lower lip before sliding it between his teeth.

He lets Dean hold him in place, lets him grind his hips wantonly against him.  He can feel that he's already half-hard, which triggers an intellectual arousal in the angel as well.  He pulls away from his lover's demanding mouth to kiss at his throat and then lightly bite at his collarbone.  

"Fuck," Dean breathes, inhaling between his teeth with a hiss as he rolls his hips against his lover's.

The angel laughs, and it's still an unusual sound as it rumbles quietly from his throat. He rubs his short stubble against Dean's skin, then bites again where his neck meets his shoulder.  When Dean gasps again, he innocently rubs the tip of his pink tongue against the reddened mark, satisfied that Dean will have to mind his shirt collars for a few days.

"Cas," Dean half-growls in warning.

"Is there time for anything?" the angel whispers huskily, his hand sliding down to palm Dean through his jeans. He knows that the hunter's trousers are probably getting pretty uncomfortable, so he unfastens the front closures to alleviate some of the pressure.

"Dunno," he breathes, pressing into his hand with a sigh of relief, "S’Crowley."

Cas assumes then that speed and silence are the priority, and he lightly pushes Dean back.  However, when he starts to slide downward to his knees, Dean catches his upper arms and and pushes him back again.  _His_ priority is being face to face with his archangel, even if it means neither of them is getting off.

 _It feels good just to kiss him like this_ , Dean thinks unintentionally, grateful when Cas tilts his chin up and grants him the perfect angle to kiss him.  His mouth is soft and he's several degrees warmer than he is, which Dean thinks is exactly the right amount of not-human - nothing bestial, but unusual enough to be exciting.  He doesn't like to admit, even now, that there are times when touching his lover isn't just a well-practiced formula for getting off.  He knows, even though he won't say it, that sometimes just being close to the angel is the end game rather than just a step toward fucking him. 

Castiel isn't thinking anything so affectionate - his goal at the moment is to pleasure his hunter as quickly and thoroughly as possible.  His hand presses against the small of his back beneath his t-shirt, then slides down the cleft of his backside.  One very sure finger, slick with who knows what, circles briefly and then eases carefully into the heat of Dean's body. The taller man swallows a moan, pressing his face to Castiel's shoulder as he struggles to maintain his perfect composure.  Normally Dean is a bit more protective of, sometimes verging on touchy about, what happens backstage.  At the moment he has no objections.  With surprising dexterity, the angel maneuvers his hand to deftly slide his finger in and out of him, crooking the tip slightly.

The press of his hand as he works a second slippery finger into him pushes Dean flush against him from tummy to hip, all but forcing him to grind on the shorter man.  He tilts his head down, kissing the angel eagerly.  

Cas bucks his hips forward as well, meeting Dean's short, awkward thrusts evenly.  He can feel his lover's body tensing around his fingers and wishes that there was more time and less need for secrecy; he wants Dean loud.  He wants Dean squirming under the attentions of his mouth and fingers.  He wants Dean completely undone.  He will take this moment, Dean forceful and needy, but it doesn't mean that his greedy little heart doesn't crave more.

Dean would kill for an Oxford right now. The thought of fucking between the angel's slick thighs while he did this finger thing sounds pretty awesome.  Hell, though, he'd have considered a crossroads deal at the moment if it meant he'd get a bit of archangel ass, Cas on his hands and knees, wings spread and trembling as he took it from behind. He reminds himself that this is enough though, and that he can content himself with this.  Aside from being a bit hot and humid from having entirely too many layers of clothing between the two of them, this feels pretty great.  Definitely the kind of thing that can get him off pretty quick.

"Come on," Cas whispers harshly, "For me, Dean... Come on..."

"Cas..." he breathes in protest, shuddering as the angel spears him on his fingers again and again.  His hips jerk when Castiel finds the right angle and manages to prod his prostate with his fingertips.  He bites down on his lower lip to keep from making a sound, but Cas recognizes the reaction and begins to replicate the movement with slightly more finesse.

The hunter rubs up against him eagerly, his hips stuttering, before he comes with a stifled groan.  

His breathing is quick and he knows that his cheeks are flushed as he slumps slightly against his shorter lover.  He can feel the hot, sticky mess between them but at the moment, he doesn’t feel like moving.  Instead, he gasps softly, his mouth pressed to the angel’s shoulder, then leans in to shakily kiss his mouth. 

Cas smiles into the kiss, then his smile broadens when Dean gasps as he withdraws his fingers.  There is a smug line to his posture and the relaxed slump of his rounded shoulders.  He is completely at ease and completely satisfied with what they’ve done despite that he remains largely untouched; if anything, he is even more pleased by his relative composure as compared to the panting, quivering hunter who has him pinned to the door with his body weight.

Dean's head spins when he suddenly finds himself sitting in the center of his bed with a newspaper spread out before him on the multicolored comforter.  He looks around in slightly alarmed surprise, wondering briefly if that had just been a very detailed fantasy.

His phone buzzes, a text lighting up the screen briefly.

_I love you_

He reaches for it to reply, and the slight stretch makes him aware of the pleasant jelly-muscle feeling in his legs and the oversensitized sensation of his trouser front against his spent prick.  Yeah, that had definitely happened, and good ol' Cas had heard the shower cut out and had cleaned him up and taken off.  It really was like old times, right down to the subtle smell of the local hotel soap.

He sighs quietly, surprised to find himself a bit disappointed that his archangel had taken off so quickly.  Normally a wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am was just fine, great, even, but there was something vaguely frustrating this time about the fact that they hadn't even said hello or goodbye.

He brushes off the feeling, telling himself not to be a clingy bitch, but he does stare a little soppily at the text for a moment before tapping out an answering _Yeah, thanks for stopping by._

Dean knows he should say that he loves him back (and that he should tell him that all the freaking time), but it still makes him feel crawly to put those words out into the open.  Comparing Cas' text to his response though, he feels a little guilty.  He adds another text to the previous in the hope of being a slightly less terrible lover.  Bad enough he didn't get the damn angel off, no need to make it worse by being laconic.

_Haven't seen you in a week. You should come by the bunker when I get back_

Castiel's response is so quick that Dean knows that he must be composing with his thoughts rather than hen-pecking the letters with his fingers.

_There is a lot going on in heaven and on earth Dean_

Pause.

_I'm still trying to ascertain the best way in and out of Hell_

The hunter smirks, settling back a bit against the headboard as he types back.

_But you had time for a booty call_

He can almost hear his lover’s huff at the beginning of the answering text.

_You didn't say that's what it was I thought you had an emergency_

Dean smiles to himself; even if that was why Castiel appeared for him, it wasn't why he stayed. The question now was whether he wanted to tease him or if he wanted to avoid further incriminating thoughts being committed to writing - already he'd need to delete the "I love you " and the reference to the booty call.  

_Awful nice of you to stay then_

Before Cas can reply, the bathroom door opens and emits a cloud of humidity.  Crowley, his thinning hair damp and mused, looks him over appraisingly.

"Water pressure's shit," he states as he moves to sit on his own bed.  He immediately notices the change in his roommate, how the tension has eased from his shoulders and the furrow in his brow had finally relaxed.  If he'd still been a demon, he'd have smelled the angel on the air; as it stands, all he sees is Dean's still-flushed face and his greatly improved mood.  In the absence of the usual suspect, he draws a rather different conclusion as to how Dean spent his alone time.

He has the common sense not to say anything, for once, even as he notes that the hunter's grip has tightened on his phone.

  
\------------------

In the other room, Gadreel is unusually taciturn.  Sam, interpreting his quiet as standoffishness, makes a few attempts to draw him in to conversation, but gives up after his boyfriend returns only minimal, unengaging responses.

As he skims his email, he reflects on his treatment of his blond companion over the last month.  He was aware even at the time that he was coddling him - he can't pretend that he didn't know, particularly given how many times Dean had called him out on it.  _You gonna let him cross the street on his own, Sammy?  Maybe let him graduate to using the stove if he proves he can handle the microwave?_ He'd always thought that Dean had needed to actually _work_ at being an overbearing ass and constantly dogging his footsteps, but the reality seems to be that it comes naturally to Winchesters.  It really is easier to be overprotective than it is to just let someone go.

Despite hating how Dean's need to protect him had made him feel constantly inept, he hadn't realized that he was doing the same thing to his lover.  Gadreel hadn't said that he felt stifled or that Sam had made him feel incompetent, but asking to work alone had meant the same thing.  For his adoring blond, that was practically blunt.  He might as well have told him to fuck off. 

He doesn't quite understand Gadreel's quiet now, though.  He feels like he gave him plenty of space and full autonomy at the crime scene, but his beloved still seems unusually brooding and distracted now that they are alone at the hotel.  He climbs to his feet and stretches, then walks over and leans in to kiss him.  He is surprised when Gadreel barely responds to the brush of his mouth.  Sam's brow furrows slightly slightly before he slinks off to the shower in defeat.

After he slips off, Gadreel takes up his spot in front of the laptop where he scours the internet for more information about Emily Dwyer.  He finds her Facebook page, an infrequently used Twitter, and a few property listings.  He stares for a few minutes at her photos, his dark eyes tracing and memorizing the outlines of her eyes and the curve of her full mouth and soft cheeks.

 _She's very pretty_ , he thinks again, though the emphasis is different, less forceful, than it had been at the house or even a moment ago.  It is more like he is simply recalling his earlier thought.

He sits back and closes the laptop, deciding suddenly that he doesn't need to look at her any more that night.  In fact, his previous interest seems noticeably unnatural and slightly unhealthy, even to him.  The feeling is similar to waking jarringly from sleep, and he is again aware of the discomfort of the hotel chair and the singing rush of the shower.

 _Was Sam trying to talk to me earlier?_ he wonders absently, realizing belatedly that his quiet had probably come off as rude.  He would apologize when Sam emerged from the bathroom, and perhaps he would make it up to him by rubbing his back or engaging him in conversation on some topic that Sam enjoyed; he had gotten surprisingly good at smoothing things over when his lover was in a bad mood from a rough hunt or an argument with Dean, and this seemed as though it would be little different.

Across the room, Sam's phone rings several times.  As soon as it cuts out and presumably rolls over to voicemail, Gadreel's phone buzzes to life on the bedside table.  He glances at it casually, then looks over to the closed bathroom door before reaching for the phone and accepting the call.

"Hello, Agent Stockholm," he answers, hoping to sound appropriately official.

“Hey, this is Detective McManus.  I just tried calling your boss, but no one picked up.  Ms. Dwyer has been released, so if one of you wanted to question her, we let her know you might be stopping by.”

“Where’s she staying?” Gadreel asks, feeling a little surge of that same intense interest as before.

“She’s staying at the Blue Star motel.  It’s about five minutes from the house, on Jameson Parkway.”

The former angel is surprised by his luck - that is exactly where they are staying.

“Room number?”

“15.”

“Thank you, I’ll let Agent Peverett know.  Have a good night.”

After he hangs up, he contemplates his next step.  He knows that he should wait and bring Sam along to question their witness; in fact, he knows that his lover will be put off with him if he doesn’t.  Given that they seem to be at an awkward peace at the moment, logic dictates that he go about everything the Right Way, the way that the Winchesters want him to do things.

That isn’t the decision that he makes, though.  Slipping his jacket back on and straightening his slim, plain tie, he pockets his copy of the room key.  He looks toward the bathroom door then slips out of the room, closing the door behind him with a modest click.

The night air is bracing and clears the last vestiges of his earlier brain fog.  He is aware that he is not making good choices and that the rest of his hunting party will likely be annoyed with him, but he can’t help but want to find some of the answers on his own.  Some lingering restlessness in him wants to meet the almost-victim in person, but his inquisitive mind and lingering pride inspire an eagerness to be the one to crack the case; he wants to impress Dean and to put Sam’s mind at ease.  He also wants to reward Crowley’s faith in his ability, even though he doesn’t really know the former demon very well at all.

He knocks on her door, fumbling in his pocket for his badge and a tiny notepad.  Sam had given him both, though Dean had been the one to make his ID.  He flicks the corner of the laminate, then skims it under his thumbnail in a familiar, fidgety way.  He isn’t stupid; he knows that the hunter is making a joke at his expense when he calls him Stockholm, but he blithely feigns ignorance because it’s easier.  Dean has come a long way already in terms of accepting him, but he isn’t sure that he will ever actually approve of him or think he’s worthy of Sam’s attention.

When no one answers, he knocks again.  As he waits, he rocks back and forth from toe to heel, listening for any sound of movement.  He can imagine that Ms. Dwyer would be a bit skittish after what happened, and he knows that she likely had a long day between the hospital visit and the police questioning.  In all reality, he can’t help but feel slightly rude for expecting to impinge on her time further.

He is about to leave when the door opens several inches and a woman’s intense brown eyes are peering at him over the chain deadbolt that ran between the door and the inner wall.

“Ah, Agent Stockholm, FBI,” he says quickly, holding up his badge for her examination.  

Her eyes flick over to it, then back to his face.  After a brief pause, she slips the chain from the deadbolt and opens the door.  Something in her expression seems to imply that she is admitting him to the room because she trusts his credentials rather than his face, and even after she steps back to admit him to the room, she maintains a distance of several feet from him.

“What do you want?” she asks.

Her voice is soft and slightly higher than he had expected it to be.  Still, it’s a pleasant voice, one with music in it even as her tone implies distrust.

“I just wanted to ask you a few questions about what happened to you last night,” he says, forcing a softer, more human inflection onto the words.  It happens more naturally now anyway, but there are times when he needs to make a conscious effort toward how he presents himself to strangers.

“I already talked to the police,” she says flatly, though she doesn’t tell him to leave.

“Yes, but I am in town with a group that has been investigating unusual deaths… and we would likely be more open-minded about some of the stranger aspects of what happened to you.”

“So what you’re saying is that you believe the crazies, huh?” she asks, raising her thin, deliberately shaped eyebrows.  The press of her full mouth, firmer in the center as the corners tug upward, reminds him of Sam; he’s seen Sam give a similar disbelieving look to his brother on several occasions.  The familiarity of it puts him at ease, despite that her body language is not at all welcoming.

He smiles slightly, “What other people think is crazy, yes.  I don’t personally think I’ve met anyone yet who didn’t have a reasonable basis for his or her account of a situation.”

He knows that his grammar is still needlessly formal, but he can’t bring himself to make mistakes on purpose.  Sam pointed out once that most people said “their” or “them” when referring to a person of unspecified gender, even though it was wrong.  Gadreel balks at intentional mistakes, even if they could make him seem more normal.  

“Fine,” she says finally.  She pauses for a moment, as though realizing that she might be offending him, then nods, “What did you say your name was…?”

“Agent Stockholm.  Greg,” he says, giving her a relieved little smile.

“Greg,” she repeats, taking a seat at the little desk by the window.  Her room is approximately the same as the room that he and Sam are sharing, so he knows the layout already.  Her curtains were a different pattern and the framed art was different, though located in the same places, but otherwise the rooms are very similar despite that the motel is obviously not part of a larger chain, “I’m Emily.”

“I know,” he says, realizing it’s the wrong response.  He continues on, hoping to improve as he continues, “Anyway, the police told me that you two were alone, and that your attacker just suddenly--”

Emily’s lips pale as she pressing them in a different, slightly sick, way.  

“It was like something tore him apart.  Like…”  she ran her tongue over her teeth, then blinked slowly to center herself, “Like an animal, but I couldn’t see it.  It was like something just… reached into him and pull his chest right open.”

Gadreel nods slowly, turning that over in his mind, “Did you notice anything strange…?”

“That’s pretty strange,” she snaps, then puts her hand to her mouth almost apologetically.  Her eyes aren’t sorry, though; her eyes are scared.

“No, I’m sorry, I should have been more specific… did you notice anything unusual, like the lights flickering, a cold sensation, a strange smell…?”

She wants to ask him what he was playing at, and demand to know why he was asking for strange information like that.  A small, paranoid voice in her mind tells her that he’s mocking her, and that he will dismiss her story out of hand the way that the police officers had that afternoon.  Then she remembers the way that she had felt a sudden chill and had almost imagined that she could see her breath.  She remembers how the lights had seemed to dim and gutter, though she’d thought that it was just how her brain had processed her terror.

“I think that it was cold… and the lights… they may have flickered…” Emily admits slowly.  

Gadreel nods slowly, “All right… thank you.”

They’re both quiet for a moment, each separately considering the implications of what she’d said.  The quiet stretches a moment too long, tipping the interaction into the realm of awkward.

“Do you… need anything else?” she asks uncertainly, her brows drawing down again.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to go quiet on you,” he says apologetically, unnecessarily, as he recognizes her discomfort, “I was just thinking.  Have you ever felt a cold or seen the lights do that before?  Or was this a one-time occurrence?”

“It was just this time.  Everything just seemed strange.  Like it wasn’t real.  I really just… I dunno.  I felt like it was a bad dream or a movie or something.  I mean, even now I feel like it couldn’t have really happened… but I remember it all so… it’s so… ”

She pauses and looks down at her hands as though there would be some answer in the angles where her fingers curled into fists.

“ _Vivid._ ”

Gadreel nods slowly.  Looking at her, he knows that she wants something from him.  What she has seen can’t be explained within the belief structure that she has built her life upon, but she wants a reason for what happened.  The former angel can’t imagine a life where he didn’t know about angels, demons, and monsters; he envies the simplicity of a life of ignorance, but he doesn’t know how to fabricate an explanation for the uninitiated the way that Dean or Sam would.

“Are you afraid?” he asks simply.

She looks at him in surprise, as though stunned that he would ask her something like that.  She expects comfort, not restatements of her own obvious condition.  

He licks his lips uncertainly, then says with surprising sympathy, “You’ve had a stressful 24 hours, between the home invasion and the unexplainable death.  Both are horrific… do you have someone who can stay with you if you need companionship?”

“My mother is coming up from Florida the day after tomorrow…” Emily replies, “I should be fine until then.”

The blond nods and reaches into his pocket to pull out another of Sam’s business cards.  He passes it over to her, then says, “If you need anything, please feel free to call me.”

“I thought you said your name was Greg,” she says, holding the card in both hands.  It’s easier to scrutinize the tidily printed text than it is to admit that she appreciates his offer of help.  She’s always been genuinely self-sufficient, but the truth is that she has a tender heart that she works very hard to keep in check.  

“It is… I am out of business cards at the moment,” he supplies, suddenly not wanting to admit that he is only ‘an intern,’ “Agent Peverett is my partner.  If you call him, he can put you in contact with me.”

“All right.  Well… thank you.  I should be all right, though.  The hotel’s just for tonight; they said they should have everything cleaned up by tomorrow so I can go home.  I don’t know if I want to go home… but… I don’t know.  At the same time _all I want_ is to go home,” she shakes her head, “I guess that sounds crazy.”

“No, I understand.”

He knows the internal conflict that comes from wanting to be in a terrible place because it’s home.  Even knowing that heaven is damaged and that he is unwanted, there are still nights he dreams of watching the garden or walking with God.  The memory of being held in bondage for thousands of years doesn’t change his desire to be there, and the fact that he has been stripped of his wings doesn’t mean that the heavenly host isn’t his family.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever stop thinking “I just want to go home” when he wants to retreat from conflict, and he doesn’t think that “home” will ever be anywhere but heaven.

She nods, and sets the card on the desk.

“Well,” he says, glancing at the clock on the bedside table, “I should go.  Thank you very much for your time.  Please do call me if you need anything.”

It’s somehow slightly awkward when he leaves, as though they have shared something more intimate than just a police interview.  It isn’t a flirtation, but there has been a different sort of understanding.  Under different circumstances, Gadreel knows that he would want to talk to her more to get to know her.  He likes people and he intuitively likes her.  He feels a strange prickle again, remembering how he’d felt about her earlier when he’d seen the picture at her house.   _She’s very pretty_ , he thinks, recalling how strongly he’d believed it earlier and how the force of the sentiment hadn’t been like him at all.  It had been admiring and emphatic, but almost angry, like it was her fault that he had noticed and felt strongly about it.

Now, the sentiment is much gentler.  _She’s very pretty_ , he thinks, agreeing with his earlier judgment but lacking the vehemence.

When he opens the door to the room that he shares with Sam, his taller lover looks over at him in surprise.  His expression is suddenly closed, his brows drawn down slightly and his mouth set in a stern line.  Immediately, Gadreel knows that he made a mistake; his casual greeting withers on his tongue and his shoulders hunch instinctively as though he unconsciously expects a blow.

He pulls off his jacket and hangs it over the back of a chair, then turns away from his roommate to strip out of his button-down, tie, and slacks.  Without looking at Sam, he dresses quickly in a worn black t-shirt and a pair of loose-fitting flannel trousers.

“Where were you?”

Gadreel looks over his shoulder at him, then smooths down his shirt in an effort to look casual.  He isn’t sure if it would be better to be forthcoming with details or to try to downplay where he’d been and what he’d learned.  Strangely, his tongue seems thick and his brain feels slow even as his heart beats faster.

He moves to sit on the edge of the bed, using that extra second to prepare to speak.

“I got a call from Detective McManus and I went to go talk to Emily Dwyer.”

“By yourself?” Sam asks, raising his eyebrows, “Without telling anyone?”

As soon as he says it, the hunter regrets it.  More, he regrets his tone because it’s exactly what he is trying not to do.  He doesn’t want Gadreel to think that he can’t handle himself, or that he doesn’t trust him.  In an effort to soften his questions, he quickly adds, “It’s really dangerous.  I mean, you should have at least brought Crowley… and told me where you were going.  No one knew where you were.”

“Were you worried?”

He weighs his options, then nods cautiously, “Ah... yeah.  I mean, a bit.”

“I’m sorry,” Gadreel says quietly, reaching over to take his lover’s hand, “It wasn’t my intent.”

Sam sighs and curls his fingers between Gadreel’s before pulling his hand to his lips and kissing his knuckles.  There’s something in him that wants a fight - it’s the hunter who’s used to arguing with his brother and dragging grievances out into the open, sometimes with a bit of animated roughhousing to clear the air.  He reminds himself that Gadreel isn’t Dean, and that normal people don’t fight the way that he does with his brother; they need to talk, as they have stated on more than one occasion, and they need to handle their conflicts in more productive ways than passive-aggression or even outright aggression.

“It’s fine… I mean, I trust you.  I really do.  It’s not you, Gadreel… it’s just… you know, everything else.  I mean, I wouldn’t necessarily want Dean going on his own either,” he explains, though he knows that he is already half-lying.  He and Dean frequently split up and he knows that Gadreel knows that.  So that it can’t become a talking point, he squeezes the blond’s hand and continues, “And you know, I’d have liked going with you.  I want to hunt with you more.  I mean, maybe the two of us could go on a hunt on our own sometime, just a normal one, y’know?”

Gadreel nods, “All right, certainly.  We can do whatever you would like, Sam.”

Sam smirks a little, not quite moved by his mild response, then says, “Also, it’s common courtesy to share what you learn when you question a witness.”

“Oh,” Gadreel smiles a little, “I was going to.  I wasn’t going to keep it secret.  It sounds like a ghost.  She confirmed that only the two of them were present, and she said that the lights flickered and that she felt cold.”

Sam is proud of him for getting the information, but can’t help but feel that it offers little of value; they had already mostly confirmed that it was a vengeful spirit.  He had confirmed that the victim had scoped out the place when he'd delivered a parcel to her the week before.  Still, more information is more information and he can appreciate his lover’s efforts.  For a novice hunter, he has a great deal of drive.

“Is she all right, do you think?  How is she handling the situation?”

“She’s all right.  She doesn’t seem to know what to think or how to react,” Gadreel explains, “She’s scared, I think.  I felt bad for her because she is rather alone until her mother comes on Thursday… it’s a pity.  She seems very kind.”

“Yeah… it seems like bad things like this always happen to good people.”

_Bad things happen to bad people too, but they’re different bad things.  Usually bad things that they had a hand in causing._

Gadreel nods in unfortunate agreement, “She’s very pretty.”

He doesn’t know why he says it, really, except that the words have been running through his head in one form or another for the past few hours.  It adds nothing to the conversation and after he says it, he regrets it.  It was an unnecessary and oddly personal remark.  More, he sees a small change in Sam’s expression at the words, as though he’s offended him. In reality, the hunter has just realized for the first time that Gadreel isn’t his by default; the former angel is capable of finding other people attractive, and perhaps he wouldn’t always want Sam most.  Perhaps in the face of others, Sam’s reluctance to love his body or trust his human judgment will tempt his beloved to stray.

He isn’t jealous of Emily Dwyer specifically or concerned that Gadreel has been cheating on him; instead, he’s strangely shaken by the possibility that he isn’t the de facto most important thing in the other man’s life.  Sam’s brow furrows, then smooths with force of will.

“Yeah?” he asks finally.

“Yeah,” Gadreel confirms, leaning in to kiss him on the mouth.  He doesn’t really understand why Sam seems unsettled, but he wants to put him at ease.  He releases his hand in favor of wrapping both arms around him and pulling him close

Sam leans into him, hooking his chin over the shorter man’s shoulder,  “Well, good work on questioning the witness… it _is_ good work, y’know?”

Gadreel nods, still holding him  tightly, “Yes… but now I’m tired and I’m here with you.  Let’s go to bed, beloved.”

Sam is uneasy, still, and strangely restless with this new knowledge and what he perceives as a shift in their relationship.  He feels as though today has unmoored his comfortable, verging on complacent perception of his relationship with the former angel.  He’s certain that it wasn’t Gadreel’s intent, but the effect is the same: for the first time since he was touched by the angel several months before, he doesn’t know where he stands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the long break between updates. I tried to make it a long update to make up for it!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a warning, there is a short summary of imprisonment/murder. There's nothing graphic/violent or even overly descriptive, but I know that it's a sensitive subject for some people so I wanted to put the warning in there. It comes within the last section of this chapter - and I'll note that section by using ******* for the section break. If that sort of thing really bothers you, you can skip that section and I'll put a little summary of the important plot points from that section in the notes at the start of the next chapter.

When Sam tells Dean about Gadreel's interview with Emily Dwyer, he relates the story as though he accompanied the novice hunter.  Dean grumbles that he would have _killed_ to go if it meant he got a half hour away from Crowley, but he doesn't push for details beyond the basics related to the case.  He's more concerned about news of a slaughter in Massachusetts that sounds disturbingly supernatural, which makes him gloss over any details not related to finishing this case and getting on the road.

As awful as that news is, Sam is relieved by Dean's fixation - for some reason, he'd been certain that Dean would see through his lazy recollection and realize that he was telling the story secondhand.  He and Dean are practically professional liars, which makes them both equally good at spotting lies.  Of course, both had lied extremely successfully and kept numerous catastrophically damaging secrets over the last few years, but it doesn't change the fact that Sam is never completely confident keeping things from his brother.  However, knowing that Dean would be angry with the blond is only one reason why Sam keeps it secret; he feels strangely self-conscious, both personally and professionally, about Gadreel's sudden independent streak.

Thankfully, he isn't Dean so he doesn't try to overcompensate for the feeling of insecurity by being especially brash or standoffish.  Instead, he pushes his beloved off on Crowley and sends the two men off to conduct a more thorough examination of the house now that the police have cleared out.  While the local law enforcement had been very cooperative, there were certain things that were just easier to do when only hunters were on the scene; he and Dean are both slightly skeptical about their backup team's practical experience, but both have extensive knowledge (either from books or experience).  The worst case scenario was more pathetic than dangerous, so the Winchesters are willing to split up.

Sam and Dean take off for the town records office, where they find to their chagrin that the tiny local department only started digitally imaging their files in 2004.  Prior to that, they had stored most documents on microfiche, and the oldest records, those going back more than 40 years, are in moldering manilla folders in decrepit cabinets.  At a glance, it appears that they must have been categorized using the Dewey Decimal System, because they sure aren't ordered alphabetically or chronologically.

Sam reflects that he should have brought Gadreel rather than Dean, as his lover has a nerdy zest for crumbling papers and musty old documents.  Dean has a great memory and a particular aptitude for skimming for relevant data, but it isn’t something that the elder Winchester enjoys; Sam half-considers plugging himself into his MP3 player and just tuning out his brother's muttering about technology and wasted time, but he decides against openly antisocial behavior and just lets the almost continuous grousing serve as white noise.

"Surprised you didn't bring Gadreel," Dean comments as he skims over an enlargement of a fading microfiche, "He actually likes this crap."

"Yeah," Sam says with a shrug, "I'm trying to let him do some of the fieldwork stuff."

"You guys fighting?" his brother asks casually.

"Not really."

"Ah.  Just looked like there was a bit of trouble in paradise there."

Sam sighs lightly through his nose.  He recognizes that Dean is trying to look out for him, but this is one of the extremely rare occasions when he would have actually preferred that his brother be _less_ in touch with his feelings.  It isn't like he got all nosy when Dean was on the outs with Cas, but then, who had the energy?  They seemed to be bickering about one thing or another near constantly.  

The “old married couple” cliche immediately comes to mind, though he wouldn’t dare to say it unless they were either outdoors with room to run or checked into a motel with a good lock on the bathroom door.  He has fond memories of harassing Dean through a locked bathroom door, though most of them are tainted by memories of Dean retaliating by doing something horrible to his bags.  Sometimes it was worth it, sometimes it was not; the shaving cream in his shoes was gross, but the hot sauce in his underwear was inhumane.

"Nope, we're fine," he answers shortly, trying not to sound defensive, "Just trying to give him space, y'know."

Dean hums in agreement, but they otherwise continue on in silence.  Sam is so used to skimming files, both from hunting and his academics, that it takes minimal brain engagement.  This unfortunately leaves him free to mull over other things, notably the end of the world, their planned picnic in hell, and his boyfriend commenting on how pretty Ms. Dwyer is.  She is pretty, he concedes as he recalls her photos.  Gadreel hasn't seen many girls as a human man, talked to even fewer, and it only seems logical that the blond would have some curiosity about the opposite sex.  It's entirely possible that Gadreel is straight, but is making an exception for him too.  It's possible he doesn't even realize that he's doing it, or that there are other options beyond being with Sam and living this strange life with the Winchesters.

"Weird question," Sam asks after about another fifteen minutes, "Did Cas' personality change much when he was human?"

"Ah... I didn't really spend a whole lot of time with him, as you may recall, but I guess not really.  I mean, I guess he was still pretty much the same guy, just a bit moodier.  Touchier, you know?  Not like... _physically_ touchy," he adds quickly, avoiding looking at him, "Like he'd get more emotional.  He wasn't really human all too long though, y'know?  Just long enough to drop some weight, get laid, get killed, and work as a convenience store clerk."

Dean is answering the question at face value, not even pretending to acknowledge any romantic undertones.  Though he is willing to make limited, stilted conversation about Sam's gay little West Side Story, he refuses to discuss his situation with Cas.  Even with it being somewhat out in the open between the brothers for the better part of a month, Dean is only a half-step away from complete denial at any given moment.

He clears his throat and asks, "Does, uh,  Gadreel seem different now or something?"

Sam shrugs, "I dunno.  A bit."

They work in silence again for a few minutes.  Sam doesn't expand on his response and Dean isn't comfortable enough with the topic to press for detail.  As far as he's concerned, he has fulfilled his brotherly obligation, and if Sam wants to be a thankless little tough guy, that's his business.

"Hey, got the burial information for the girl - Virginia Olsen.  Cemetery name and funeral date anyway... There's a start, right?" Dean says brightly, squinting at the screen and committing the information to memory.

"Yeah, awesome.  Now we just need the murderer guy, then we can get this going."

"There's some of the stuff from her file, too, but not much on the guy.  Guessing he's got his own 'fiche."

Sam pulls out his phone and texts the news to Gadreel, carefully avoiding asking how their own search is going.  He reminds himself that he is just giving a case update, not looking for a progress report or a reassurance that no one has been arrested or eviscerated. It takes a moment for the blond to write out his response due to a combination of unnecessarily formal phrasing and limited typing speed, but the answering text is friendly and congratulatory.  The former angel adds a second message to let him know that they just got in the house after picking the lock.

Gadreel slides his phone into his pocket carefully, then follows Crowley in to the quiet house.  A familiar, slightly agitated feeling creeps up on him again as he crosses the threshold, like chilly fingers aligning themselves methodically along his ribs, but he doesn't remark on it; glancing at his his companion, he can't help but think that the former demon looks to be completely at ease as he walks through the living room and into the kitchen.  The older man has an enviable, undeserved confidence and moves as though he has a right to trespass wherever he pleases.

The former angel lingers in the vestibule, trying to sort through the quiet, but quickly building, anxiety that has latched on to his heart and has started to gently squeeze.  His pulse is quick already and almost uncomfortably gaining speed.

"They did a bang up job cleaning," Crowley comments from the kitchen.  Taking a bracing breath, Gadreel follows the sound of his voice to find the other man stooping down to examine where the floor had until recently been coated in thickly gelled blood, "Real benefit of a lino floor and don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

Gadreel nods distractedly, registering the antiseptic smell of bleach but little else as he makes a loop of the kitchen.  He pauses to look at the windows, half expecting to see some creepy reflection of something terrible behind him, but sees only the blue skies beyond and Ms. Dwyer’s tiny, well-kept back yard.  

He leaves Crowley behind to explore.  The house is small and fairly old, the product of New Deal housing plans.  The cramped floorplan would probably accommodate a small family of three, possibly a well-behaved family of four, but is actually rather ideal for a single person.  There is only one floor with crawl spaces rather than a full basement or attic.  There is a combination of linoleum and carpet, both meticulously clean but noticeably worn. The front door opens into a small vestibule with hooks on the wall in lieu of a coat closet, then transitions smoothly into a small, square living room with several small, old windows.  From there, the kitchen is immediately to the left and a short hallway faces the front door.  Following the hallway, Gadreel first passes a small guest room with an outdated computer set-up and then a tiny, retro bathroom.

Gadreel feels his agitation mounting as he walks by  by the old-style pink and black tiled bathroom, to the point where he feels almost as though his heart will hammer its way clear through his ribs. The sensation scares him and he wonders for a moment if that was what had happened to Matt Landon.

He can smell Emily in the house, her perfume and her detergent.  He can imagine her thick, dark hair, and he thinks _She's very pretty_ , though he doesn't know why.

He feels rather than sees a movement and wanders further down the hallway, blanking slowly at though fazed.  Photos on the wall catch his attention, but the only details that seem to penetrate the fog are related to Emily.  Her hair, her mouth, her eyes, her slim, smooth hands.

_She's very pretty but I can't have her, can I?  Could I ever?  She wouldn't want someone like me, just a guy like me.  She's just nice to me to be polite, she's really disgusted, she's actually just making fun of me in her head, I'll bet..._

He stands in her bedroom doorway, staring vacantly at the corner between two walls with windows.

_Yeah she's making fun of me.  What a bitch, that dumb bitch is leading me on 'cause she knows I want her and she knows I don't have a chance... She could be mine, I could make her mine, she doesn't even know it but I could be the best one for her.  I want to be the best for her.  I really do, I can be.  I just need her to listen oh God why won't she just listen?_

He realizes suddenly that his lips are silently moving with these words, which are coming into his mind in a fast, furious stream.  He is barely breathing, lightheaded, as he sees another figure across the room, a figure that seems only half-there.  The hazy outline of a man is staring through him, his eyes wild and unfocused, and his lips are moving in tandem with Gadreel's own though the vision makes no sound.  
  
_That bitch, that bitch.  I can keep her that way, she can't- I won't let her go - fuck, fuck, that-_

"That fucking bitch-" Gadreel breathes aloud with a heartbroken, furious vehemence that isn't his own.

"Gadreel?" Crowley asks from immediately behind him.

Gadreel jumps, losing his focus and his connection with whatever he'd been staring at.  The image fades just as instantly from his thoughts, but the memory of the emotion remains a moment longer.  Forceful, possessive, wounded, violent, accusatory.  Heartbroken, alone.

"You're all right," Crowley reassures him, clapping his shoulder, "What did you see ?"

 "What?" he asks, licking his bloodless lips.

"You were staring and I hadn’t even known you knew how to swear.”

Gadreel shakes his head, walking into the room and soaking in the details again.  He feels calmer here, in this room, than he did anywhere in the house.  It feels like the space is his, like he is somewhere that he belongs.  It's a safe place, a place where he can find release from the horror of everything that was wrong with everything.  Surrounded by Emily’s things in the half-dark room, the world outside seems very far away.  He could just curl up in the corner and close his eyes and everything would make sense.

“Gaz, come on, then.  I think you’ve had about enough of this place,” Crowley says, resting a hand heavily on his shoulder and pulling him back.

“I haven’t finished looking things over… nor have you," he points out, unconsciously setting his heels. 

“I think we’re good.  It’s a ghost, we've got it."

Crowley's hand slides down to his upper arm, where he grips him rather firmly.  His hold is tight enough that Gadreel takes notice and wonders at his companion's insistence.

"I'm fine, Crowley."

"I'm going to call a cab.  I want you to go out and wait on the steps."

Gadreel is about to protest when the older man gives him a slight shove.  Crowley is considerably smaller and much less physically strong, but the application of force is enough to jolt his attention back to the real world again.  His brows draw down in consternation, giving him a fleeting resemblance to his archangel sibling, but he closes his mouth on his argument.

Crowley turns him loose with a meaningful little shake followed by a gentle shove before he turns back to the kitchen. The blond watches him for a moment before sulking his way to the front door.  He stops with his hand resting lightly on the nob and glances around. Something in him doesn't want to leave, the same something that had made him feel successively more anxious as he walked away from the bedroom.

 _Pretty bitch._ He thinks frantically, _she wouldn't want me here if she knew.  Fuck, why can't she just give me a chance, I deserve a chance._

"Out," Crowley barks sharply from the kitchen doorway, making the former angel jump, "Now."

Gadreel unwillingly slips out into the front steps, his hands sunk deep into his pockets like a sulking teenager.  He wants very badly to go back inside; more than that, he wants to go and curl up in that corner between the windows where he'd felt safe and complete.  Something rings strange about that thought, even to him - he had been in the room, but he had stayed on his feet.  He certainly hadn't drawn himself up, mentally barricaded in the corner.  And yet, he can almost feel the drywall at his back.

He swallows thickly.

A moment later, Crowley walks past him down the steps, "Come on, Gaz.  Let's go meet your moose."

"I still don't get why you call him that," he says, stumbling slightly over his words.

"Have you seen the man? He's enormous," Crowley looks up from the screen of his phone, where he has been tapping out a short text, "Hm, maybe you haven't as you're hardly a waif yourself."

_This is affecting your boyfriend badly. I recommend pulling him._

He taps the button to send the message, then pops the phone back into his pocket.  He glances toward at the house untrustingly, then says, "Come on, we'll walk to the end of the drive and wait there; a bit of exercise would do me good."

 

\---------------

 

By dusk, Gadreel has almost normalized.  He still feels vaguely agitated, but it's undirected, like he knows that there is something to be afraid of but doesn't know what it is.  The uncertainty and half- remembrance is more unsettling than anything else and makes the draw of that house and that room even more enticing.  Almost addictive.  He finds himself wanting Emily's calm presence and that house.  

He doesn't talk about it, but for several hours he's too distracted to talk about anything else.  As a result, he is introspectively silent again.

This time, Sam's perception of the situation is mediated by the text exchange that he shared with Crowley.  He tries to engage his lover by asking his opinion on photocopies of a number of grisly murder scene photos they'd unearthed from the archives, but Gadreel's commentary is limited.  He stares longest as the photos of the murderer's dead body .

"Shot himself in the head after he killed her. His head basically exploded.  They couldn't get all of the bone fragments and blood, so they pretty much tore out all the drywall and pulled up the floor.  It was the only way they could get everything out, I guess.  They couldn't even find the bullet."

Sam is giving more detail in the hope of getting some reaction from his lover, but he knows it's a long shot; Gadreel doesn't react to gore with awe or disgust even under normal conditions.

"Mm," he replies noncommittally.

"Are you even listening?"

"Did they bury what they had?"

"Cremated."

"I see," Gadreel says consideringly, "Do you think that we should attempt to locate the bullet?  I could go back-"

"I'm going to send Crowley, I think.  Dean and I will go salt and burn the first victim, put that to rest... We're pretty fast, I think our record is like 13 minutes..."

"What about me?" He asks, slightly stung at being excluded.  More, he feels a low, rumbling anger that he won't have an excuse to return to the house.

"You..." Sam pauses to take a quick breath, knowing Gadreel would be angry about what he was going to say, "You're going to stay here and hold down the fort."

"I understand that cliche, but not how it applies here.  There is nothing to do here, certainly nothing that _needs_ to be done."

He doesn't really have a good excuse.

"It's what we decided."

"What, that I'm worthless on a hunt?"  His anger burns through the remnants of his chilly malaise, brightening his sickly-pale face in a way that Sam is surprised to find reassuring.

"You're not worthless.  Something about this hunt is making you act weird and I don't-"

"What, want anything to happen to me?"

That _is_ what Sam was going to say, but years of arguing with his father and Dean has given him perfect verbal redirection skills.  By default, being cut off by his own words makes him rapidly choose something different, usually sharper, even if his original statement would still suffice.  It never goes well; he always manages to extend an argument, wound his brother, or make himself come out as the bad guy.  The only time that he'd ever gotten cuffed by his dad had been the result of a smart comment that he hadn't originally intended.  He remembers every time how his ears rang, how horrified Dean had looked, but the memory never mediates his response.

"I don't _trust_ you," he says flatly.  He first feels triumph at the bite of the remark, but is immediately flooded by regret at the sight of Gadreel's surprised expression.

He's still too newly human to be stoic, so the sting of Sam's words is plain in how his eyes briefly widen and his lips part with a silent, startled inhalation.  He recovers reasonably quickly and looks away, "Oh."

"It's-," Sam begins, but he is interrupted by a hard knock on the door.  He would have normally finished what he was saying before answering, but he has nothing to say other than platitudes and reassurances that he loves the other man.  At the moment, still in fight mode, he's angry with himself already for even wanting to backpedal.  He stalks resolutely to the door, turning his back on his wounded lover, and looks through the peephole his see Dean fidgeting outside the door.

When he pulls the door open, his brother walks right in without invitation.

"Hey, we gotta get going and get this done, Sammy."

"Okay... it'll be dark enough in like fifteen minutes, I think."

"I mean like now.  This morning.  Yesterday," Dean says emphatically, "News 'bout that massacre make me think it's Abaddon... There was a witness.  They just found a witness, man, and it's seriously screwed up shit happening there.  And yeah, this thing needs to be put to rest, right, but we need to take that bitch down asap."

He's obviously worked up over the situation and Sam can understand why - the police reports that he'd hacked that afternoon were chock full of revolting details of people eviscerated and practically turned inside out.  Their first guess had been demons, but a few texts from Charlie had cast doubt when she pointed out that there were several decent size angels popping up on the map in that area.

"Yeah Dean, okay... It's just about dusk now, I guess we can head out now, drop Crowley at the house to see if he can hunt down that bullet."

"Fuck Crowley.  You an' me, we'll hit up the cemetery, go straight out, and these two can pack up and be ready to get the fuck out of dodge."

"Oh...kaaaay," Sam replies, holding his hands up in defeat.  He knows his sibling well enough to recognize a losing battle; it really was better to go along with him when he was like this than it was to get thoroughly bulldozed _and_ have Dean surly.  "Let's just, ah, okay.  Yeah, let's head out."

When his younger brother turns to Gadreel, Dean knows immediately that he has interrupted something; Sam has his angry eyebrows and stiff shoulders while Gadreel looks a bit like he's been kicked.  He feels a vague surge of discomfort at the awkwardness that he's sure only he feels.  He's thankful for probably the millionth time that he and Cas can keep their private shit private.

"Hey, could you pack things up here and make sure we're ready to go when Dean and I get back?"

The former angel nods, but doesn't answer aloud.  Without comment, or even the usual adoring look that normally makes Dean feel crawly, Gadreel walks into the bathroom to start gathering up toothbrushes and shampoo.  In a weird, vaguely stomach-turning way, he half-wishes that Gadreel was acting like a star-struck puppy so that he wouldn't have to worry about what was going on with his baby brother.  He'd only given Gadreel an abridged version of the "you better not fuck with my baby brother" threatversation and he was beginning to wonder if it was sufficient; in his mind, Sam would always be in the right when it came to disputes with the angel.  Or anyone, really, except himself.

Sam doesn't look at Dean because he doesn't want to talk about it.  Grabbing his light jacket, he nods to the door, "Let's get this over with and get on the road."

In the car, Dean debates offering up a colorless 'You okay? but he isn't sure he wants the resulting conversation.  Stealing a glance at his brother, he isn't sure he'd get one; more than angry, now that he is away from the source of his frustration, Sam seems guilty and miserable.  Where anger would have made Sam rant with even the slightest invitation, he is currently sullen and brooding.

There's a certain element of refinement to digging a grave.  Without measuring, they can map out the appropriate dimensions, and without any special tools, they can keep the tunnel downward straight and even.  Both Winchester have backs and shoulders like Olympic swimmers from years of lifting and throwing hundreds of pounds of dirt, rocks, and heavy mud.  The beginning and the end are the worst parts - breaking through the mesh of interwoven roots was frustrating and messy, though they could work together for the first few feet.  As the hole deepened, space became tighter, making it a slightly claustrophobic one-man job.  The deepest part of the dig required whoever was digging to toss dirt up above his shoulder while the other cleared it back to make room for more.  

Still, there is a satisfaction in the work and an almost-pleasure at the simplicity of physical labor.  

About half-way down, Dean finally breaks the silence to ask, "Everything okay?"

"Dunno," Sam answers.  They are side by side in the waist-deep trench as they work, hardly breaking a sweat in the chill winter gloom.  The ground is half-frozen, making the task frustratingly difficult.

He doesn't expand on his response and Dean doesn't ask.

 

************

 

Sam usually knocks once before walking in, quietly but firmly, and Dean always knocks like he's punching someone in the face.  Two knocks, light and closely spaced, make Gadreel jump but don't tell him who's on the other side.    If he was a real Winchester, he'd have picked up his gun before answering the door.  Being who he is, as lingeringly naive as he is, he simply opens the door without even glancing through the peephole.

"Oh, Agent Stockholm, good," Emily says, obviously relieved to have chosen the right room.  "I didn't want to call your partner, so I checked with the office to get your room number.  Ah, I guess that sounds a bit strange."

"Oh, not at all," he replies, surprised by how pleased he is to see her.  He steps back to invite her into the meticulously tidied room.

"I don't mean to bother you, but I just kind of... They cleared my house for me to get back in.  I was wondering, um, if you'd just go with me for a little bit just to make sure there's nothing... I don't know.  Weird."

Gadreel is a bit surprised to be asked, but he did offer his support.  While he knows he should wait in the room, he feels obligated to honor his offer.  Seeing her, particularly in his despondent mood, he's eager for companionship.  There is also an opportunity to help the hunt, as Emily returning home means that there will be no opportunity for the other hunters to scour for the missing bullet.  It makes it much easier to justify going against Sam's request.

He nods to her and pulls out his phone, "Peverett and Price took the car, would you be able to drive?"

To Sam, he writes, _Escorting Emily home.  Please pick me up at the house, will try to find bullet._

She smiles quickly, beautifully, in relief, "Yes, that's no problem."

Emily glances at the neatly packed bags by the door and asks, "You guys heading out tomorrow?"

"Tonight, actually.  We received another call."

"You sure you got time to go with me?"

Gadreel nods, and she rushes on, "It's stupid, I just don't want the first time I go back there to be going alone."

He's dressed casually now in jeans and a t-shirt, and Emily can't help but notice the strong, obvious musculature of his arms and shoulders.  She subtly watches the muscles of his upper arms as they shift under his worn shift, not knowing that it's one of his boyfriend's shirts.  There's something vaguely exciting about seeing a federal agent in casual clothes.

"It's not stupid," Gadreel reassures her as he pulls on his holster and checks his gun, "It was a very traumatic experience."

If she thinks his way of speaking is awkward, she doesn't make any indication of it.  She waits patiently as he puts on his jacket, her eyes traveling over his back and thighs.

"Yeah, that's what they tell me," she says with a self-deprecating laugh.

He gestures to the door, momentarily ignoring the vibration of his phone in his pocket.  His guest walks out ahead of him and he pulls the door closed behind them.   "You sound as though you don't believe it..."

"It's... I guess it's just that I feel like no one's believed me, so how could they be sincere when they're sympathize, you know? Like... They all thought I was crazy down at the police station, and I know they want to think I did it, that I killed that guy..."

Gadreel looked at her thoughtfully, "And because of that, they are glossing over the fact that a man broke in to your house to harm you."

She's quiet for a moment as she unlocks the car, "Yeah.  Like hurrah, like 'At least you're alive, Emily!  That other guy isn't!'  I mean... I'm tough, right?  And nothing actually happened... It's funny, I guess. My mom never liked that I live alone, but it never bothered me.  But now... I just... I dunno."

Emily climbs into the car and stretches across the front seat to unlock the passenger door.  As Gadreel settles in, she continues, "Now I just wanna move to a bigger city, get a roommate... I don't feel safe."

"If you had the choice, you wouldn't go home at all, would you?" he asks quietly, watching her slim brown hands as she slips the key into the ignition.  

There's a lovely elegance to the way she moves and a quiet grace in her features when she speaks.  He can tell that she's scared, but it's different from when they spoke the previous day; her fear is diffuse and undirected now, and rather than turning her frustrated terror on him, she is leaning on him for some small support.

"Nah, I'd leave everything where it is and never come back... but... I can't do that.  I have to be responsible, I need to pack up my stuff and get the house ready to sell.  Gonna be hard enough getting someone to buy it when three people got killed there.  I mean, I got it real cheap because no one wanted it... And even then it'd already been like 20 years since it happened last time.  It's like the place is cursed."

She's just sort of talking, rattling off her concerns in a casual, amicable manner. From similarly balanced conversations with Charlie, he knows that his input isn't terribly important.  Instead, it's his attention and his company that she needs.

He remembers being an angel and listening to human prayers.  Most of his incarceration had been spent in silent darkness, but once in awhile a fervent human voice had roused him from his sluggish, near death stillness.  It was always when he had been unmoved for so long that he had nearly ceased to think, at which point he might have just winked out of existence as he would have been nothing more than a defunct consciousness.  The voices always served the dual purposes of revitalizing his mind and reminding him that there was something beyond this sensationless, stimulus-free prison. Human prayers came to him like scraps of food from a jailer intent on keeping an unfavored charge alive to prolong his suffering.

He remembered how he'd been helpless to respond to the occasional voice that woke him from the nothingness.  He remembered too how it had felt to be free and standing on the street among humanity in a borrowed vessel.  He'd intended to do so much and make so many changes once Metatron had taken heaven.

And here he is, a mortal man sitting in the passenger seat of a woman who doesn't have anyone else in this town.  At that moment, he isn't in possession of any of heaven's powers and he can't take away the memory of what happened.  But he can offer her support and he can keep her safe until her family comes to her tomorrow.  It's the closest to a guardian angel he's ever been able to be.

She's been talking while he's been jumping from thought to thought, needing nothing more than his occasional "mm-hm" or a brief question to continue.

His phone buzzes again in his pocket, and he draws it out to see Sam has texted him again.  The first, which he'd ignored before, reads _I don't think that's a good idea, I'd rather you didn't._

The second is more to the point _Dean and I are almost done.  Be there soon._

He doesn't want to reply, but he taps back a brief _All right_.

The car pulls into the driveway and all the way up to the house.  The porch light, as well as all of the indoor lights, are off.  Emily sits and stares the house down, her hands resting on the wheel. "Okay," she says, letting her breath out with a rush.  She repeats, a little more quietly, "Okay."

Gadreel watches her for a moment, noting the determined set of her jaw, then holds out his hand, "Give me your key.  I'll go first."

After picking out the correct key for the front door, she holds it out to him without question.  He climbs out of the low compact car, feeling a little silly as he unfolds his long limbs.

As he unlocks the front door, he feels the same anxiety returning that he'd experienced that afternoon.  Turning on the lights in the hallway and front steps does nothing to alleviate the sensation, and to his surprise, the feeling mounts as Emily moves closer to him.  He feels a pull to her, but it's frantic again.  He closes his eyes and the words _she's so pretty_ come unbidden into his head.  He swallows quickly and pulls out his phone to text Sam one word: _Hurry_

Emily walks past him, then loops back, "I... would you go first into the kitchen?  I want to see if it's... okay in there.  Not... you know.  Like you can't tell.  What happened."

He swallows hard, then nods.  When he speaks, his voice is level, "Yes, of course."

The kitchen is as he and Crowley left it, save for a sheet of paper on the round little kitchen table.  He walks past it in favor of moving to examine the floor where the body had been; there's nothing to find, but he looks anyway to set his companion at ease.  His heart is pounding in his throat, but he struggles to ignore it.  His phone vibrates in his pocket and he knows it's Sam, but doesn't pull it out; he needs the hunter himself, not a message from him.  In the absence of the other hunters, he needs his full concentration.

"It reeks in here.  I'm gonna have to open the windows tomorrow... Stinks like bleach," Emily comments, wandering in and leaning against the counter.

"You could stay another night at the motel and leave the windows open to let the kitchen air out overnight," Gadreel suggests quickly, hoping to sound helpful rather than panicked.  He can feel bile rising in his throat as he fixedly stares at the freshly scrubbed linoleum tile.

"I'm here, I may as well stay.  Its not going to get any less... awful here," she straightens and walks to the table to pick up a note, "Agent Alegheri left a note, does he work with you?"

"Yeah... He's my direct supervisor," Gadreel says smoothly, looking up at her, "Why?"

"He said if I felt unsafe to barricade myself in the bathroom and call him.  Wow, what?" she laughs uncertainly, shaking her head, "That seems a bit much."

He forces a laugh, unsure of how to respond.  When he climbs to his feet and starts toward her, something hazy materializes between them.  Emily jerks back, flattening herself against the opposite wall.  She doesn't scream, but when she speaks, her voice has a choked quality as though it is taking every bit of her strength to force the air from her body to form the words.

"What _is_ that?"

Gadreel feels a return of that icy sensation from the day before, though this time it's both inside and outside of his body.  An almost solid feeling of cold slips between his ribs and curls around his heart, making his breath catch.  When he finally manages to exhale, his breath is a frosty white curl of moisture.

At the last hunt, his sudden decision to exorcise Linda Tran had been right;  despite his mounting terror, he has faith in his intuition and he knows what needs to be done.  Faced with physical evidence of the paranormal, there is no point in lying.

"Your house is very haunted and this is very dangerous," he replies quickly.

He can tell that there is the tiniest bit of skepticism, even as the amorphous shape hangs on the chilly air the lights flicker ominously.   Everything she’s known up to this point wants to argue with him, and at the very least question if he is actually part of law enforcement.  When he moves closer to her, the nebulous form snaps into sharp clarity.

Emily still doesn't scream; she makes a strangled sound and tries to edge to the door.

"Time to do what Alegheri said," he tells her firmly, "You should go."

As she inches toward the hallway, the ghost moves as well.  It is the surprisingly corporeal form of a pretty, dark haired girl.  Her posture is not quite threatening, but her expression is fearless.  Compared to Gadreel, she is very slight and rather delicate, though she is still slightly taller than Emily.  Staring Gadreel down with hard brown eyes, she keeps herself angled exactly between him and his charge.

She’s familiar.  He doesn’t know why, but as he stares at her, he knows he’s met her before.  He knows what her voice sounds like, how her mouth moves when she laughs.  His vision swims and his head fills with voices, one male and one female.  Both sound scared.

_You don’t have to do this.  Just go and I won’t tell anyone._

_No-no… this is where I want to be.  I want to be here with you.  We can stay here._

_Okay, okay, right.  We can stay here.  Why don’t I make you a cup of coffee and we can talk about this._

_You’re so pretty, Ginny._

His eyes travel to the ghost’s chest, where her t-shirt is soaked with blood and plastered to her thin chest.  He remembers the news article, which had said that her killer kept her for three days, making her pretend that they were having sharing a normal domestic life with him, before she had tried to escape.  He’d shot her in the thigh to stop her and then he’d riddled her with bullets in anger when she kept struggling.  He had shot her until the clip ran out of bullets, everywhere except her face.

More than the article and the gruesome crime scene photos that Sam had shown him, he remembers the sensation of the gun jerking and deafening boom of each shot as he’d shot her again and again.  He remembered watching her trying to crawl away from him, crying, and he remembers which shot had actually killed her.  The third, which hit her just below her shoulderblade.  He’d kept shooting, his finger reflexively tugging the trigger again and again without even registering.  He hadn’t meant to do it, not really.  He hadn’t had an exit strategy, he hadn’t thought far enough ahead to decide what to do if she didn’t decide she loved him after they’d talked.  He had just thought that it would somehow work.  They could have been happy, in his mind.  How could they not?  She always smiled at him when he went through her line at the supermarket, she was always sweet.  The third morning, she’d smiled again when he let her out of the locked closet, and her demeanor had almost been like before.  She’d touched his hand and made him breakfast and told him that everything would be okay.  She asked if they could sleep in the same bed that night, but said she was saving herself for if they got married.

Then she ran - when she thought he was sleeping, she slipped out of bed and ran.  Well, it all made sense then.  She’d been playing him, just like all girls played him.  She’d been mocking him, using him.  She didn’t want him, the way no one wanted him.  That dumb bitch had led him on, she’d led him on the whole time.  He’d show her, shoot her once and she’d fold right in and he could bandage her up and put her back to bed.  Marry her right then, the stupid cunt, goddamn bitch.  She’d see she was wrong, that he was strong and powerful, then she’d want him and it would work.  When she didn’t, when she kept fighting him, he’d shot her in heartache.  When she was dead, he’d continued to shoot her in grief.

“You lied to me,” he tells the ghost, though he looks past her to Emily on the final word.  He feels a spasm of terror when he realizes that he didn’t choose the words; he is aware that his limbs are gripped with a cold, solid force and his control of his thoughts is slipping.

“Oh God…” Gadreel breathes, waving a hand forcefully, “Go.  Get in the bathroom and call Crow-legheri… go, it’s safe there.”

He doesn’t know why it’s safe there, but he knows that it wouldn’t be safe to go outside - he’d catch her as she fumbled at the door.  More, there’s something about him and something about this ghost that reaches beyond the threshhold of his house.

“Go!”  he half yells before he lunges toward her.

She shrieks and bolts for the hallway as the ghost leaps toward him.  Her savage, cold hands slide through his chest, plunging into his lungs and organs, and he snarls in pain even though he doesn’t consciously feel it.  He hears himself scream as though it is someone else as his hands grope ineffectually through the ghost.

“You fucking cunt,” he hisses.  Gadreel feels her fingers tighten and knows that he’s going to die, the way that Matt Landon died only three days ago - his chest ripped open and choking to death on his own blood.  The ghost is protecting Emily Dwyer from the ghost of her murderer - her murderer who is acting through him.  

Suddenly, the ghost rears back and bursts into flames.

As simply as that, the pain eases to a dull ache and he is alone in the kitchen.  He feels himself uncurl his body and stand up straight, then he feels nothing else.

From the doorway, Emily breathes, “Is it gone…?”

He looks at her and smiles, commenting, “You’re so pretty.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who skipped the end of the last chapter because of the trigger warnings: in the last section, the important plot points were that Gadreel and Emily went back to the house (Emily didn't want to go alone) and the ghost of the woman who had been killed there manifested there and was threatening to Gadreel. Crowley had left a note for Emily to barricade herself in the bathroom and call him if she felt threatened, and Gadreel sends her off. When she leaves, Gadreel realizes that the ghost is staying between them because it wants to protect her. When he realizes from what, he is possessed and the ghost attacks him, but right about then the Winchesters torch the bones and she goes up in flames, leaving Emily at possessed Gadreel's mercy.
> 
> Trigger warning for this section is attempted suicide with a handgun. If this is too triggery for you, stop reading after the first section and I will summarize that bit in the notes at the beginning of the next chapter. :)

Malachi's parting gift, the down-payment on his side of their new alliance, was a certain degree of seraphic triage.  War, even for celestial creatures of divine intent, is still war; both factions on earth have an assortment of angels of differing skill sets, from soldiers to medics to simple shepherds, and it only stands to reason that Malachi should have a handful of healing angels at his disposal. 

By the time that Arakiel leaves Makachi's camp, his wings have been partially mended.  His red-gold feathers, edged in dusky brown, show uneven regrowth but gleam from careful care. Flight is a possibility again, through his strength is still not what it was or what he hopes it will be again.  Allison can't physically perceive the difference in the creature inside the handsome man in the driver's seat, but she can tell that he is proud of his strength and that movements don't tax him as they did before.  When he speaks, his voice is firm, his chin is up, and his shoulders are back. 

The most frustrating part of Arakiel's assignment is that there is no easy way to find the Winchesters.  Both brothers are warded against nearly everything and made untraceable to angels; it's known that they have a permanent home somewhere in the US, but there is no solid intelligence on where it might be.  Prior to heaven being reopened, various groups had tracked the movements of their big, rumbling black car, but there was little pattern in how they criss-crossed the country.  They seemed just as likely to loop through a town more than once because Dean Winchester liked a particular diner or because Sam had wanted to check out some local attraction.  There is little to know about the Winchesters beyond their history and their discarded destiny.

What Arakiel _does_ know is that they drive a 1967 Impala and keep company with the former King of Hell and a Prophet of The Lord.  He knows that both of the brothers have been to Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory.  Both are tall and strong, both are often angry. They are descendants of hunters as well as of Men of Letters; they were violently orphaned nine years before.  They are the true vessels of Michael and Lucifer.  One is the righteous man, and one completed the trials to lock up Hell.

The last fact is the only thing that he feels could prove useful.  That kind of power would leave an indelible mark, one that would smolder through any other cloaking sigils; angelic anonymity is lost to Sam Winchester.

If he focuses hard, he can feel that mark, almost smell it.  He explains it to Allison, and though she nods knowingly, he's aware that she doesn't quite understand.  She thinks that he is scenting Sam Winchester like a bloodhound, rather than feeling for the subtle distortion in the universe around him that feels the way it looks to stare through the heat radiating from asphalt.  Only the fact that they are close, within a few hundred miles, makes it possible for the angel to sense him at all.  A lesser angel, younger or less sensitive, wouldn't stand a chance even at closer range.  Most wouldn't even know how to begin the search, but Arakiel is a clever angel.

They begin by driving; after an hour, Allison takes the wheel so that Arakiel can sit with his eyes closed and his mind open to the world.  Every few minutes, he gives her a map direction and she glances at her phone to see if there is a road that will comply with his orders.  Sometimes she turns left or right, and sometimes she just huffs in exasperation "I can't just drive through a field.  Why don't you just fly then?"

She wants for him to fly; specifically, she wants to fly with him.  She wants to fly as him, but she knows that it isn't her turn yet.  For now, this vessel whose name she doesn't even know, has the privilege of containing her angel.

"It isn't far now," Arakiel tells her mildly as the red winter sun slips below the tree line.  He opens his eyes and looks at her almost lazily, his dark eyes half-lidded and almost sultry.

She recognizes again that he's a beautiful man, angel or not, and it takes some effort to keep her eyes on the road, "Are you nervous at all?  I mean, Malachi wouldn't have sent you if it was easy."

"Mm," he murmurs thoughtfully, looking out over the red-gold stained hills.  He's always thought the dregs of winter were the ugliest part of the year, save early spring, and the southern United States is no different, "Not really.  I think it is likely to be more morally challenging than physically challenging."

"Why do you mean?"

"I have lived my entire life knowing their names and the important roles that they would play.  All angels know them, for they are beloved by God," Arakiel replies smoothly.  Allison notes that she could be in love with his voice even as she realizes that he isn't telling her the whole truth.  He continues mildly, "But they are just men and I will strike them down."

"Mm," she agrees uncertainly.  She's never obviously never killed anyone; she's never even seen a dead body that wasn't prettied up by a funeral home.  "Are they bad people?"

"It's not important."

She think that if they're 'beloved by God,' it they're probably not only not bad people, but they're likely fairly good ones.

"Are you going to do it in that body?"

"Depending on when I find them."

She has an uncomfortable moral squeamishness over the idea of an angel using her body to kill people.  She knows that he did it once before when he killed a man to take his car, though the memory is diffuse and forgettable because it has all the gravity of a dream.  Remembering it now, her discomfort grows.  While she thirsts for the power of an angel, she associates it with things like fearlessness and creation.  Killing people, even smiting them, seems low and human.

"I don't want you using mine for that."

He looks at her in surprise, “Why not?”

“It just… I dunno, weirds me out to think of you killing people using my body.  Especially people who aren’t evil.  Like it woulda been okay if you’d killed that demon chick - she was really fucking scary.  But these guys don’t sound that way.”

Arakiel watches her profile, noting that she won’t look back at him; her eyes are fixed on the darkening road ahead.  He turns back to contemplating the next few hours, rolling a few ideas around in his colossal intellect and trying to bring his reasoning down to a human level.

“They aren’t.  But that isn’t the point, Allison.  This is a means to securing a safe position in Malachi’s faction; you must understand that I am not safe in the open by myself.”

“You still haven’t told me why, or what you’re hiding from.  Why do you need his protection?”

“Would it be enough to say that I made a choice a very long time ago, a choice for love, and it has been my downfall?”

Her hands tighten slightly on the wheel and she worries her lower lip between her teeth as she considers his words.  She knows that Arakiel is smarter than she is, and that he is stronger.  In almost every regard, he is her superior.  Because of that, she is not foolish enough to think that she can ever really understand his motivation.  For some reason, it doesn’t scare her to know that the creature beside her could kill her with a thought or that it could be leading her astray.

“I want to know more than that,” she says firmly.

“Eventually.”

Allison raises her eyebrows challengingly at him, “I want to know what you did.  And you’re going to have to tell me before the next time I let you in.”

He makes a quiet sound as though this is all very tedious.  She had always thought that angels were loving, benevolent creatures.  Well, that is to say that she thought that _if they were real_ they would be loving, benevolent creatures.  In fairness, she had never been religious or even very imaginative; most of her knowledge of Judeo-Christian religion came from children’s books and Christmas specials, plus the images she’d cobbled together from her intro Art History course.  She had never really thought of angels the way that Arakiel explained them to her.  She had somehow always imagined them more like humans with wings that did good things and watched out for people.

For the first time the girl wonders exactly what she has allowed into her body and into her life.

  
  
\----------------------------------------------------------

  
If Emily had been alone, the front door would have been locked.  However, with the distractions of an unsettled home and the company of a big, sturdy federal agent, she had left the front door unlocked with only the storm door separating her living room from the winter night.  Luckily for her, Crowley doesn’t hesitate as he pushes the door open and walks in, just in time to nearly collide with Emily as she bolts from the kitchen.  He catches her around the waist and winces when she shrieks again in surprise.

“Agent Alegheri, you’re not good at following directions,” he informs her as he pulls her toward the hallway and the retro little bathroom.  She doesn’t fight him, but she stumbles, terrified, and slows them down by persistently looking behind them as though there is something terrifying on their trail.

“Greg, he’s- not right- there’s…”

“Right, keep walking, come on then,” the former demon says calmly, tugging her into the bathroom.  

Once they are inside, he checks to make sure that the salt line that he created earlier is still unbroken.  It stretches along the edge of the brass threshhold that smooths the transition between the hallway carpet and the bathroom tile.  Satisfied that it will hold, he looks to the woman who has pressed herself back into the corner of the shower.

“Tell me what happened, love.”

“You'll never believe me-"

"Tell me anyway.  Concise but detailed."

"There was a ghost… a woman… and she just… burst into flames…” she says, drawing a terrified breath after every few words.   The effect is rather melodramatic, but Crowley decides to give her a pass given the unexpectedly traumatic situation in which Emily now finds herself.  

“And what’s Greg doing?” he asks patiently.

“He’s…”  she shakes her head, unable to understand exactly what had happened or why it was so thoroughly terrifying.  “Not himself.  He’s just… wrong.  He’s wrong the way that that guy was wrong.  Crazy wrong.  Just… it’s not him.  He’s someone… something else.”

Crowley sorts through that rapidly.  He’d had concerns earlier and would have never allowed Gadreel back into this house, if the decision had been his.  Something in the house resonated with the former angel and he was fairly certain he could think of why - the bigger question was what to do about it now that he was possessed by the ghost of a murderer.  

 _Two ghosts. How quaint_ , he muses to himself as he gets to his feet and walks to the very edge of the tile.  Sometimes it still surprises him that he can cross salt lines now and that things like holy water don't burn his skin.  Miracle of miracles.

“All right.  Well, welcome to part two of your trial by fire to the world of the paranormal, sweetie."

Even as scared as she is, Emily spares him a look; his easy calm quells her terror somewhat, affording her the focus to say what she's been thinking for the past few minutes.

"This is what the FBI does?  Chase ghosts?"

"Ah, caught me there.  We're not FBI," he said with a charming little smile, "But in fairness, they'd be worthless to you now."

When Crowley sees Gadreel walking up the hallway, he retreats several steps and carefully places himself between him and and his charge.  He isn't a hunter, not really, and he isn't naturally self-sacrificing.  However, he is also aware that he has several hundred years of high octane sinning and pure evil to atone for, and placing his soft little human body in front of a terrified woman isn't really such a big deal by comparison.  He glances over at Emily, then back to the doorway, which is now completely filled by a hollow-eyed, miserable-looking Gadreel.

"Ginny?"

He attempts to step in to the room, but is unable to cross the salt line.  His eyes find Emily and he repeats plaintively, "C'mon, Ginny don't be like that - don't be like that, gimme a chance.  You're my angel, my pretty little angel.  You don't need to run from me, we could be happy if you'd just let us.  This is you, your fault we're not happy."

Crowley watches as Gadreel paces agitatedly, muttering something neither could quite make out as he drags his fingers back through his thick blond hair.

"Why doesn't he come in?" Emily whispers.

"Can't.  I laid a line of salt when I was here earlier," the former demon replies, "He can't cross it."

Gadreel is becoming more emotional as he crosses back and forth before the doorway.  The volume of his self-directed ranting grows until his words become discernible, "...she's a nice girl and nice girls don' want this.  Y'messed up Johnny, she ain't ever gon' want you, this's never gonna work.  Why did you think this would work, where'd you plan to go with her?  Course she'll run, you let any dog free an' the bitch'll run..."

"So what do we do?  Just stay in here forever?" Emily asks in a harsh whisper, her gaze fixed on the man in the hallway whenever he came into view as he passed in front of the door.

"Backup is on the way," Crowley assures her.  

He watches as Gadreel wipes as his eyes, leaving a thick smear of dark gray slime on his cheek.  He frowns, noting that the ghost must be very strong to leave such a concentrated trail of ectoplasm; the bond of possession would be difficult to break.

"What does that mean exactly?"

Crowley doesn't answer, because after only a moment, Gadreel has taken up his place in the doorway again and his full ghostly focus has narrowed in on Emily, "You know what, fine.  Fuck you.  Fuck you.  You think you're so much fucking better than me, fine.  Just go.  Just leave me, just leave you fucking bitch." 

Emily is surprised to find that even though it's raving and the words aren't directed at her, not really, he's remarkably offensive.  Gadreel's ghost seems to rally and lose what is left of his rejected sorrow, turning almost self-righteous. 

"I'll jus' follow you.  Go where you go.  Don' think I won't.  This isn't over, this isn't over."

With those words, he pulls his gun.  Emily whimpers and presses herself back helplessly against the wall of the shower.  Crowley, knowing that he was an unmissable target at close range, doesn't bother moving.  He feels a very human spike of adrenaline that almost feels good after so many years of demonic nothingness as he stares the other man down.

Gadreel isn't looking at him though.  He is staring piercingly, accusingly at Emily.  He breaks off abruptly and stalks off down the hallway to the bedroom.

There is a half-second of triumph for the king of hell when he feels confident that he not only rescued the girl but stared down the ghost.  It is short-lived as he remembers the details of the case: _boy meets girl, boy stalks girl, boy kills girl after unsurprising rejection, boy fucking kills himself._

"Fuck," he hisses, jumping the salt line and tearing off down the hallway to Emily's bedroom.

"Gaz, Gadreel, snap out of it - come on.  Wakey-wakey, come on..."

The tall, sturdy blond is pacing again, his gun in his hand and his dark eyes frantic.  He has started muttering again, this time a low, unbroken stream of curses and justifications.  He lifts his hand to scratch his mussed hair with the sight of the gun, not seeming to see or hear the other man calling to him.

"Yeah, yeah, this is better, this is good.  It was safe here, safe last night when she slept here.  This is a good place, we were happy for a little while.  It coulda been all right, it coulda worked, I never hurt her so why'd she run? What the fuck, John, what the fuck did you do?"

Crowley approaches him carefully, trying unsuccessfully to catch his eye.  He cringes every time his ally gestures with the weapon, concerned in a very real way that Gadreel is going to be murdered by the ghost within him using his own gun.

"Yes," he suddenly says emphatically before moving to the corner of the room between the two windows.  He slides down the wall, letting his shirt ride up as he sinks down to the floor.  The wall is cool and solid at his back, though it barely registers beyond familiarity and resonating "right" feeling.  He stares at the gun in his hands for a moment, then lifts it to examine it.  He turns it over in his hands, tracing his fingers over the light detailing on the grip.

Taking advantage of the ghost's momentary preoccupation, Crowley crouches down and jerks the gun out of his hands, then sends it gliding across the carpet and under the bed.  

Gadreel snarls and throws his companion back with a cold, inhuman strength that Crowley has never experienced as a mortal man.  His back hits the center shelf of Emily's bookcase, momentarily knocking the wind out of him with an angry _hwoof_.

"F-fuck," he gasps, trying to stay on his feet as Gadreel shoves him back on his way to the bed.  His eyes are wild determined, alight with the pleasure of his intentions.  This is how it is _supposed_ to be, this is where it is _supposed_ to happen. And as soon as it's done, there will be peace and quiet and he will walk with Virginia in the afterlife.  She will love him then because everyone loves everyone in heaven.

He throws himself down on the floor and gropes blindly under the bed, hindered by the ruffled bed skirt and numerous shoes

"Dammit, Gadreel," Crowley grumbles as he grabs the back of the man's t-shirt and jerks him back, twisting the collar to tighten it across his throat and choke him, "Come on!"

Gadreel thrashes in his hold, trying to free himself from Crowley's surprisingly strong grip.  He is powerful, imbued with inhuman strength, but the angle is unnatural and it's difficult for him to get the leverage to throw the smaller man off.  He strikes out awkwardly, his knuckles dragging bruisingly across Crowley's jaw.  The man hissed in pained annoyance, shifting his grip to wrap his arm around Gadreel's throat and choke him unconscious.  The ghost may be able to block out physical pain, but the body will fall unconscious even without its consent.

Unfortunately, the change in position gives Gadreel a new opportunity.  Gripping Crowley's upper arm, he wrenches his elbow hard enough to nearly dislocate his shoulder before throwing him into the dresser.  He is immediately on his belly again, reaching for the gun.  This time his long, calloused fingers connect with the cool, solid grip.  Dragging it out triumphantly, he smiles darkly and pushes himself back into the corner again.  

The ritual has to be observed, though, and he must do it exactly as it was done before.  He examines the gun again, once again caressing it almost reverently.

"Gadreel, come on," Crowley says, feeling his heart skip when the blond raises the barrel to press it against the underside of his jaw.  He quickly holds his hands up, not wanting to startle him with any sudden movements, "Come on, don't do this.  I know you're strong enough to overcome this, Gaz.  You're a ruddy _angel,_ come on."

Gadreel doesn't seem to hear him.  Crowley is about to grab for the gun, thinking that gun going off by accident is less of a certainty than the gun going off on purpose, when he hears Emily call from the doorway.

"Greg!"

That registers on some level with the ghost.  He lowers the weapon and looks at her disbelievingly, "Ginny?"

"Sure, whatever... Why don't you give me that, honey?  I'll take it, I've got you, come on..." She says, holding her hands up defensively as she approaches him.  Her movements are cautious, as though she is approaching an animal, and when she's within a few steps she crouches down and transfers her weight to her hands and knees.  She is shaking, her body wracked with fine tremors, but her voice is even and her movements are confident.

"You left me," he says accusingly, though there's no anger in it.

"Yeah, I'm sorry about that," she says without knowing what she's actually sorry about.  She moves closer and holds out her hand, "Let's talk it out, you know, real calm and just sit here together.  Okay?  Give me that."

He holds the gun loosely in both hands, not pointing it at anyone in particular, as she moves to sit beside him without quite touching him.  She holds her hand out expectantly, as though she has every right to ask for his obedience and every reason to expect his compliance, "I said give it to me.  You don't need it."

With only slight hesitation, he places the gun into her soft brown hand.  She looks at it, disturbed by its coldness and the undeniable reality of its purpose, before assuring him, "You're all right."

She startles when Crowley takes the gun from her hand and promptly, almost cheerfully pistolwhips Gadreel with it.  The blond slumps to the side, unconscious.

By the time Gadreel comes around, there is a sizable hole in the wall just above where his head had leaned a few moments before.  Crowley, having watched the ghost begin to re-enact his swan song, had a pretty good idea of where the bullet would be; with a claw hammer that Emily provided, they broke the drywall - from there, all it took was a few minutes with a pocket knife to pry the bullet out of the stud. 

The former angel looks around blearily, not quite sure if his hearing is off or if Crowley and Emily are working in silence.  Crowley is rolling the smashed up bullet in salt while Emily breaks apart a lighter.  With that accomplished, he drops the bullet into a muffin tin and she douses it with the fluid from the broken lighter.  The former shoos her back, not wanting to ignite any of the residual accelerant on her fingertips, then sets the whole thing alight.

The last of the ghost's weakening grip on Gadreel fades and the blond finds himself slumping in weariness as muscles that he had not even realized were rigid suddenly release their tension.  He groans quietly and reaches up to rub his aching cheekbone, then makes a sound of surprise at seeing blood on his fingers.  Guts and gore don't faze him, but seeing his own blood is still a new experience and one that still momentarily strikes him dumb.

"How much do you remember?"

"Nnnh.... everything," Gadreel breathes.  His head hurts and suddenly everything feels too loud.  He rubs his hands over his face.

"And?"

"It was awful."

"I'm looking more for facts than your feelings," Crowley tells him.  His tone is slightly sharp, but he subtly rests his hand on the bigger man's shoulder.

"Can I tell you later?"

He looks blearily at Emily and is surprised to find that there is a new confidence and almost serenity to her expression.  He doesn't quite understand it, and with his rapidly mounting headache he doesn't try.

"Nope, we're going to need to summarize this to Tweedledumb and Tweedledumber any second now and I'd like to know what facts I have to work with."

Gadreel combs through the images lingering in his mind, both his perceptions of the last ten minutes and the hazy memories that lingered from the ghost's possession.

"Wh-when a man came to the house, the ghost could parti-partially possess him, just enough to alter his memories.  S'like an addiction, made them want this room b'cause it's the ghost's safe place. I kept trying to get back to here.  So'd the guy that the girl's ghost killed..."

Hearing Gadreel slurring his words, Crowley wonders if perhaps he hit him a little too hard.

"When they came-come?-came back it wanted to re-anac-re-enac... Do its things - bad things and death- again.  And the ghost of the woman he killed wanted to protect-wanted to she wanted to protect Emily but the interrupt made him start again..."

He rubs his eyes, letting his head loll forward, "Wanna go home.  Sleep."

Crowley attempts to put together that bit of broken narrative, knowing that it likely wouldn't be any clearer to Gadreel after he'd recovered.  It seemed that the ghost would possess someone enough to put an idea in his head, then take full control when he came back so that he could walk through his crimes again.  Only his original victim's ghost was having none of it, and the interruption forced the murderer's ghost to start again.  Hence Gadreel.

"'Fraid you're not going to be doing that for awhile, I think you've got a concussion..."

"That's actually incorrect, he should sleep if he has a concussion," Emily points out.  She glances toward the door when she hears the tell-tale signs of forced entry.  The Winchesters have two methods of entry - stealth and panicked.  In the former, they could move almost silently, pick locks, and practically move like silver screen cat burglars.  In the latter, they were loud, violent, forceful wrecking balls who kicked down doors and yelled a lot.  Someone was yelling something that Emily thought sounded a lot like "Gag reel", but she knew that she must be mishearing.

"How'd you get here anyway?" Gadreel mumbles, looking at Crowley in new confusion.

Crowley wants to snootily ask him if he _really_ thinks that the former king of hell can't hotwire a car, but he's interrupted by the Winchesters appearance in the doorway in full battle mode.

"The fuck happened here?" Dean demands, his eyes moving between Emily, the smoldering baking tin, and the hole in the wall.

Sam tucks his gun away and moves to crouch beside Gadreel, only Emily is in the way.  He reaches past her, trying not to prickle at her closeness, and lays his hand on Gadreel's outstretched leg.

"You okay?"

Gadreel nods, smiling a little, "Yes.  There were... two ghosts."

Dean nods, "Thought there might be.  You guys got the bullet then?  We toasted the ghost bitch."

"I wish you wouldn't call women bitches," the concussed blond comments, having been relieved of his usual brain to mouth filter.  Sam leans closer to look at the darkening bruise on his cheek, frowning and largely ignoring what he'd said.

"Did you take care of it or not?" Dean asks a little irritably, surprised to have been scolded by the rookie hunter.  He is not enjoying this hunt or where he seems to be falling hierarchically; between Crowley and Gadreel, his pride is bruised and he hasn’t had any major victories or sexual conquests to bolster his ego.

"Yes, we did," Crowley supplies, "All in all, it was a rather successful night."

"Need more detail than that," the elder Winchester reprimands, leaning in the doorway and looking around.

"There was a bit of whooshing about, a corporeal manifestation that tossed Gaz here around a bit, and Ms. Dwyer and I cut into the wall and found the bullet embedded in the stud. Done and done.

It's far from the truth, and even in his slightly addled state, Gadreel can recognize that the older man is lying for him.  He distantly understands why - that he had gone against orders and gotten himself into a lot trouble - but he still feels that the omission is problematic.  It credits him with a greater contribution to the hunt while diminishing the very real way that Crowley had likely saved both him and Emily.

"Tha'snot what happened," Gadreel interjects before either of the brothers can respond, "Crowley saved ever'body and Emily was very brave.  I got possessed by th'ghost and they saved me."

After a moment, he adds sorrowfully, "M'a really terrible hunter."

Dean just sort of stares,then drags his hand down over his mouth and chin.  He doesn't have a response that's not ill-tempered or involves shooting the blond with rock salt at close range, so he just keeps his mouth shut.  When Sam doesn’t immediately respond, he shakes his head and says, “Yeah.  Well.  All right, then.  I think we’re gonna need to talk about this more when you’re a little bit less fried.”

Gadreel isn’t familiar with the phrase and doesn’t make any effort to figure it out.  Instead he just stares, alternating between watching Dean and watching Sam.  Their presence is actually surprisingly reassuring, and now that they’re both in attendance he feels more than ready to fall asleep.

“So, uh, wanna get out on the road?”  Sam finally asks.

“Seems like a plan,” Dean agrees readily.

Emily helps Gadreel to his feet, letting him heavily on her.  She’s a lot smaller than he is, but she’s her balance is good and her pride keeps her on her feet.  He makes a few self-conscious, distracted apologies, keeping his arm around her shoulders, as he tries to get his balance sorted out.

Sam notices the proximity and how Emily doesn’t seem at all shy with the big blond draped over her in that familiar way.  He feels another unaccustomed prickle of jealousy, though he pushes it back with the reminder that Gadreel is oblivious.  Even as forces himself to swallow that thought down, he is aware that Emily is talking softly to Gadreel and that he can’t hear what she’s saying.  It’s soft and surprisingly sweet, the way that some women could be with men they didn’t know very well.  Sam thinks that it sounds rather flirtatious and he is fairly certain that Gadreel has a bit of a dopey smile as he walks with her to the front hallway.

Again, Sam feels the uncomfortable twinge of uncertainty as he wonders if there is an attraction between the two of them.  He isn’t worried that there is some future with Gadreel and Emily; instead, he notes that Emily is one of the first women he’s met as a human, and he wonders if others like her (or even completely different from her) will catch his attention in the same way.

“Are you going to be okay?” Gadreel asks her groggily as she passes him off to Sam.  

The woman nods, smiling slightly.  There has been a change in her with the knowledge that what had happened to her hadn’t simply been a random, unexplainable act of horror from start to end.  There had been a reason, though unusual, and there had been a way to explain it.  And with that knowledge, they had been able to put an end to it.  It doesn’t change the fact that a man died in her kitchen, but it puts a frame of reference on it.  It makes it feel as though the world is less impossible, and that it is only a matter of finding the right information and the right weapon.

“Yes, I think so.  My mom’ll be here tomorrow, and I think we’ll be good to get the house ready for market.  It’ll be fine.”

“You gonna tell her about this?” Gadreel asks.

“Probably not,” she admits with a quiet laugh.  She glances over when Dean and Crowley pass them and walk out onto the porch, then realizes that it’s time to part company and that she will be alone in the house.  She bites her lower lip with just the briefest moment of uncertainty, then stretches up to kiss Gadreel’s cheek, “Thanks for your everything.  Tell Agent Alegheri - or whatever his name is - thank you for me.  Hey, is your name actually Greg?”

“It’s Gadreel.”

“Unusual name.”

“It’s because I used to be an angel,” he replies readily, smiling slightly.

Sam groans aloud, finally, though he had wanted to for several seconds, “All riiiight, well, that’s enough for you tonight.  Quite a knock on the head you took there, let’s get you into the car.”

He walks the man out onto the porch, where he meets the other two hunters.  He knows that he needs to thank Crowley at some point for saving Gadreel, and he does want more information.  

“Well, figure we can grab the bags and head straight out tonight.  It’s not too too far, so I can probably get us home by morning,” Dean tells him, glancing over, “Figure I just had a cup of coffee an hour or so ago, I can probably take the whole drive and you guys can sleep.  Then we can drop Crowley and Gadreel, restock and grab some breakfast, then head out for New England to check out the Abaddon thing.”

“Sit in the back with me,” Gadreel murmurs to Sam, leaning close.  He isn’t as quiet as he thinks he is, but Dean pretends not to hear him.  

Crowley, however, is still an opportunist and pipes up, “Well, I call shotgun then.”

“Like hell.  I don’t care if you did save Gadreel’s ass, you’re in the back.  The front is for Winchesters.  Exclusively,” Dean says quickly, shaking his head.  He walks down the steps, then loops back, to look at the former demon.  He's too beligerent to come off as sheepish, but there is an obvious, unwilling sincerity when he speaks again, “Thanks for that though, saving Stockholm, I mean.  Good on you.  A plus work.”

“Thanks-” Crowley begins drily, but he pauses to look at approaching headlights.  At this hour, any traffic should be here for a reason.  More, there’s something about this car and its passengers that catches his attention.

The feeling of vague anxiety doesn’t dissipate as the car pulls into the driveway, blocking them in.

Dean’s hand moves intuitively to his pistol as the passenger door opens and a tall, well-dressed black man steps out of the car.  His face is unfamiliar, but his carriage and graceful, inhuman style of movement is unmistakeable - everyone, with the exception of Emily - recognizes him as an angel immediately.

“Sam and Dean Winchester?” he asks.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you skipped the end of the previous section because of the trigger warning, here is the summary: Crowley arrives and pulls Emily into the bathroom, where he had placed a salt line earlier that day. Gadreel rails and is angry because he can't get in, then walks off to the bedroom. The ghost in him intends to re-enact his suicide, and nearly does except for Crowley and Emily's intervention. Emily talks the ghost down and Crowley knocks Gadreel out and leave him concussed. From watching the start of the re-enactment, they are able to figure out where the bullet is and destroy it. Dean and Sam arrive and Crowley lies about what happens, but Gadreel comes clean so that Crowley can have credit for saving him. As they leave, Sam notices again how natural Gadreel is with Emily and is slightly jealous, but doesn't have long to think about it - Arakiel arrives as they walk out onto the porch.

Dean feels his jaw set.  To his annoyance, his angel blade is in the car, and the angel has placed himself squarely between the Winchesters and any kind of effective weaponry.  Everything in-hand is suited to ghost hunting; the holy oil and angel blades are stowed neatly in the car.  He cocks his head to the side, "Who's asking?"

The angel, calm as ever, takes a step closer, "Arakiel, second of the twenty watchers and the master of the signs of earth."

Sam's eyebrows lift automatically; this is the first angel he's heard introduce itself using titles and epithets.  It sounds important, but it also sounds boastful.  He feels Gadreel's shoulders tighten and hears his breath catch.

"Banishing sigil," the blond breathes as the angel looks Dean over head to foot.

Sam nods but doesn't move right away, instead commenting aloud, "Sound important."

Dean recognizes the tone and knows that he should engage the angel as a distraction.  It was always a pleasure being the pointman and putting himself out in front of everyone else.  Nothing quite like tempting fate by being bait.  Even as the adrenaline feathers through his stomach, part of him enjoys acting as a human shield; he'll do it every time, and that fact meant that he and Sam can always trust each other for high-stakes plays.

Leaning back against the railing of the first step, he asks innocently, "Second, huh?  Not good enough for first?"

Arakiel is about to reply, but pauses mid-step, "I feel Gadreel's grace."

Beside Sam, Gadreel stiffens slightly.  

"It's weak," Arakiel comments, walking up to stand almost face to face with Dean, "Just a glimmer, like a fingerprint.  He was in you, wasn't he?"

The angel smirks at the hunter's obvious discomfort, "You said no to Michael, an archangel, but you let that miserable garden sentry wear you around?"

He feels rather than sees another mark on Dean, another angel's claim on his soul.  It is curious, but he doesn't think on it long.  The strongest claim on Dean is that made by the archangel Michael and Michael has been locked away for eternity; any other angel's claim is ultimately unimportant.  He isn't the sort to linger on etiquette in a situation like this.

He raises his eyes to Sam, "And you as well... But I also feel more that than on you.  You're still carrying a germ of Lucifer's grace."

The information makes Sam recoil, momentarily unable to stomach the thought.  Gadreel's grip on the back of his shirt keeps him grounded as he is knocked by a crisp recollection of his fist repeatedly slamming into his brother's face.  He remembers how it hadn't hurt his knuckles, but had left Dean's face bloodied and swollen, as though his hands had been turned to stone.  Any remnant of the devil was too much.

"Sam," Gadreel says quietly.

Arakiel turns his attention to Gadreel briefly. "You're a strange creature.  Your soul is much younger than your body."

He feels no spark of the divine in Gadreel because there is no trace of angelic grace in his body.  As such, the blond doesn't hold his interest, despite the unusual vitality of his freshly minted soul; with the lack of grace and the Enochian warding on his bones, Arakiel would never have recognized him as a fallen brother.

"Do you actually want something, or is this some Pokemon-like cataloging exercise for you?" Dean asks, smirking at the angel.

Arakiel is about the same height as he is, but slightly broader.  His immense angelic strength gives him a different weight, as though his personal gravity should crack the ground under his feet.  Dean remembers feeling the same power with archangels like Raphael and Michael, though Gabriel and Lucifer had moved more lightly; his personal archangel was as slope-shouldered and casually divine as he'd ever been.  Without knowing exactly who this angel is, he knows that he is old and strong, and that he should be afraid.  Part of him knows that he should call Castiel, but without knowing if this is another archangel, he won't bring his lover into the reach of Arakiel's sword.

"You're exactly what I pictured," Arakiel tells him, not catching the reference or rising to the bait, "A fine weapon gone dull from misuse."

Dean bristles, trying to will the sword from his trunk into his hand.  He wants to show him _exactly_ how a weapon can be misused.

Arakiel looks at Sam differently, as though he sees something in him that he wants to keep for himself, "I won't enjoy killing either of you."

"So why do it?" Crowley asks with a little smile.

Arakiel looks at him, his dark eyes keen, "A cured-"

He disappears in a flash of blinding light as Crowley thumps his palm against a blood sigil drawn on the glass of the storm door.  

"Talked a lot, that one.  Old ones always talk a lot," Crowley comments drily, looking down at his stinging forearm.  He has neatly cut a line into his flesh that is just deep enough to provide enough blood without causing undue damage; he isn't a hunter, and he has never understood their idiotic tendency to cut their palms when they need blood for a spell.  Far better to cut somewhere that isn't needed for everyday activities like _pretty much everything_.

"A bandage would be lovely, Ms. Dwyer."

"There are bandages in the car, we have to go now," Gadreel says, shaking his head.  His words are heavily slurred, but the force of his conviction borders on panic, "Arakiel is not a good angel.  He'll find us again if we don't put distance between us and this place."

"Emily?" Dean says, turning toward the woman where she lingers beside Crowley, "I want you to go to a hotel for a few days in case he comes back.  Just two or three days."

She looks between Dean and Gadreel, then nods.  She doesn't question the order, she just nods; there have been too many other strange things today to question much of anything.

"Right."

They all turn sharply at the sound of a car door slamming.  A college girl leans uncertainly against the side of the vehicle, her brow furrowed.  She looks tired and rumpled, but human.  At a glance, there is nothing special about her in the early evening darkness, but no one moves toward her. 

"Can you help me?" Allison calls, "That guy was crazy, he made me drive him here."

Dean looks at his brother as if for confirmation, then nods after they exchange a look and walks out toward her.  If she had been an angel herself, she would have gotten wiped away along with Arakiel, but he isn't completely reassured that she poses no threat.  He stops about six feet away from her, and falls back a step when she takes one toward him. "You need a doctor?"

"No... I'm not hurt..." she says, confused.  She suddenly remembers the blood stains in her shirt and jeans from when she'd been attacked by the redheaded demon a few days before.  The fabric is stiff and has dried in places to a dull, flaking mahogany. "Not anymore..."

"What happened to you?" Dean asks, pulling out a flask of holy water and tossing it to her.  When the silver flask doesn't burn her, he relaxes slightly; when she drinks without incident, his demeanor changes, going into something between protective big brother mode and hot chick magnet mode. He's obviously tired and he fails to really come off as anything other than concerned and a bit frustrated.

"That guy grabbed me and made me drive him here.  He said he could feel someone he needed to kill.  I don't know... I just... He cut me, then he made the bleeding stop... and I was so scared, oh my god... I just... did what he said."

Dean nods, exhaling hard through his nose, "Okay.  Well.  Yeah, okay.  I'm guessing the big guy took the keys with him, right. We can give you a ride to the bus station, you can get home that way I guess."

"I'm... really far from home," she says quietly, "and I don't have any money... And I haven't eaten anything in a couple days..."

"How far is really far?"

"Massachusetts."

"That's practically where we're headed, Dean.  We could probably give her a ride at least part-way," Sam suggests.  He is surprised that his brother isn't bending over backwards to help the pretty coed; there was a time when a notable age gap wouldn't have fazed his older brother, and would have actually spurred his flirtations on to a point of being downright embarrassing.

Dean sighs impatiently, "Yeah, sure.  You wanna get in a car with four strange men, kid?"

She chews her lower lip, then says, "Yes.  In case he comes back.  I don't think that a cop coulda done what you just did, making him disappear."

Dean can't argue the logic of that.  However, it didn't mean he is pleased about stuffing another body into the impala.  The main reason he'd volunteered to drive was so that he could ring up Cas for a bit of company once everyone else was asleep.  Mystery girl would essentially be taking his place; best case scenario, she'd sleep along with everyone else, leaving Dean alone for a couple boring hours of twilight driving.

_Great._

He knows that helping a traumatized stranger is ultimately more important than teasing a few hours conversation out of his angel, but the disappointment still feels like a slap in the face.  "Right, well, that's definitely true," the hunter's shoulders slump slightly, "What's your name?"

"Allison.  Wild. You're Dean?"

"Yeah.  Then that's Sam, Gadreel, and Crowley.  Go get in the front of the impala.  There's a bottle of water and a candybar in the glovebox," Dean says, waving her off.

Gadreel takes the middle seat in the back beside Sam and moves close to him, tucking himself up against his side awkwardly until the taller man shifts and slides his arm around his shoulder.  That serves as an invitation to move closer, which is just fine with Crowley because it gives him more space.  To his mind, being folded into the back seat with over 12 feet of lovey-dovey hunter isn't an ideal way to spend an overnight drive.

Emily watches from the front porch, fingering the business card that Gadreel had given to her earlier.  She feels very exposed where she is, but it doesn't quite scare her.  After what she's just been through, she half-wonders if anything else can scare her again; the world was so much bigger than she had previously thought, but her perception of it has been turned completely around.  She lifts her hand to wave as they back out, then fishes out her phone and sends a text.

_Thank you._

Sam feels his phone vibrate in his pocket, but doesn't check it.  His angel is warm and pliable in his arms, cuddled close against his side as though their arguments of the past few days hadn't happened.  It feels good, even if it is owed in part or in full to a serious head injury.  In his experience, physical trauma tends to mellow most people out. 

He knows that there are issues between them and things to discuss.  He listens as Dean carries on disinterested discussion with Allison, marveling at how much less lecherous his brother has become under Castiel's influence.  There was a time that Dean would have been flirting up a storm, despite that the girl next to him is considerably younger and probably traumatized.  In fact, he remembers times when Dean had said explicitly that the best kisses he'd gotten were from girls he'd rescued.  He wonders if Cas knows about or tolerates competition; considering it now, he realizes that it is likely a non-issue, as the bulk of Dean's bad behavior in past years had been when he and Cas were on the outs (and in retrospect, probably broken up).  They must have broken up and gotten back together a dozen times, by his count.

He doesn't really know why his brother and his earnest angel hadn't been able to make it work in the past - he usually assumed that it was something on Dean's side, likely denial.  But he can't help but notice that he and Cas seem closer now for their time apart, and he wonders at his own relationship.  The "right thing to do" would be to break up with the man in his arms; it would be the responsible thing to do, to excuse Gadreel to explore and learn what sort of human he is and what he wants out of his new life.  He can't picture him working in an office or a restaurant, but he isn't a natural hunter either.  Seeing how natural he'd been with Emily, how he had almost flirted with her without even trying, Sam realizes that Gadreel has the potential to be happy with other people.  Perhaps other paths would suit him better.

Gadreel sighs and shifts closer, as though reading his thoughts, then lifts his head to press a light kiss to his mouth the way he would if they were curled up beside one another in bed.  He lingers close to him and kisses him again, open-mouthed but surprisingly subtle.  Sam is surprised enough to kiss him back, momentarily forgetting both his prior line of thought and the other passengers in the car.

When Dean clears his throat irritably, he pushes Gadreel back in embarrassment and holds him firmly against his chest so that he doesn't try anything else.  Crowley is looking fixedly out the window and the girl in the front is surreptitiously watching them in the rear view mirror.  Sam feels his cheeks burn as Dean casually says by way of explanation, "He's got a concussion."

Dean turns the radio on to cover the awkward silence that should have been the four of them discussing the case; Sam already regrets pressing for them to bring Allison, who is presently serving as the conversation block. Dean briefly tries to engage her in order to find out more about Arakiel, but the girl doesn't have much to add - she'd realized that he wasn't human, but he wouldn't talk to her or tell her anything beyond his name.

They lapse again into a silence and one by one the passengers fall asleep until Dean is left awake with his lonely annoyance.

 

\---------------

 

By the time they roll into the bunker, Dean has changed his mind about heading straight out; he just wants five hours of sleep and a breakfast that he can cook himself.  Red-eyed and heavily stubbled, he passes Allison off to Mrs. Tran, the resident early bird, and stomps off to his room.

He falls into bed, stretching out on his back with his booted feet still on the floor, and groans, "Archangel Castiel who art in heaven, get your feathered ass down here."  

He adds a bit of silent prayer along with the words, with the same lack of reverence but with a specific location, and closes his eyes.  He's been awake so many consecutive hours that his eyelids have a hot, itchy feeling that makes closing them unpleasant.  He stubbornly tells himself that he likes driving all night and it's just as easy as it was when he was twenty.  Because it _is_ , Goddammit, and he still loves the hunt and it isn't like he _needs_ to come home to really relax.

Hearing the welcome, familiar rustle of Castiel's wings, he exhales slowly without opening his eyes.  He listens to his lover's quiet, measured steps as he approaches his bed, then kneels down and unties his boots.  Cas has taken his shoes off for years, as though he doesn't think that his hunter will actually do it himself; every time, Dean is almost uncomfortably aware of how intimate the gesture is, like doing this small thing is somehow more intimate than all of the times that the angel has stripped him bare.  

He lets him remove his shoes, noting as always how gentle his hands can be, then smiles when Cas lightly kisses his shin through his jeans before moving to the bed. The sharp point of his knee on the comforter depresses the mattress beside Dean's thigh, and a second later he has settled, straddling his hips as he leans down to kiss him.

Dean kisses him back tiredly, his movements lazy as he drags his hands up the back of Castiel's long coat.  

"Get this off," he murmurs against his mouth, and he is immediately rewarded by his hands against the clean, soft cotton of the angel's button-down.  He can feel his dangling tie brushing against his throat, just above the top of his t-shirt, and momentarily has the urge to tug on it, but he's content to just kiss his lover over and over.

Castiel sits back, his weight centered pleasantly on Dean's groin.  The tired hunter finally opens his eyes to look at him, then smiles warmly, "Hey, Cas. I missed you."

Cas is momentarily surprised to hear the words, but the curious purse of his lips quickly turns to one of his rare, subtle smiles.  The confusion returns briefly when Dean takes and holds one of his hands, but he decides quickly that he appreciates the display of affection.

"I missed you too."

"Thanks for coming by the other day... That was cool.  Sorry we didn't get to actually talk to each other," Dean says almost sheepishly.  He knows that there's no need to apologize, which makes it easier to do; if he had actually done something wrong, he'd have probably brushed it off and tried to act normal.  However, in the quiet seclusion of the bunker, in his sound-proof, demon-proof private space, he wants the angel in his lap to share his comfortable calm.  

"It's fine," Cas says dismissively, shifting to lay down atop him.  Rib to rib, he lets out a quiet breath as he lifts his hand to stroke Dean's short hair back from his face - the styling gel is flagging after hours on the road, leaving his hair softer and more pliable under his fingers. He kisses Dean's jaw and asks, "How was your hunt?"

"Weird.  Gadreel is really just... not cut out to be a hunter," Dean muses, rubbing the archangel's back.  He knows that Castiel barely registers the sensation, but he likes doing it because it feels normal. He's largely trained his companion into "normal" responses (in this case, lightly leaning back into his hands), but he knows that handling his vessel is less sensory than the rare occasions when he is allowed to touch his wings.

"I'm not really surprised."

"Not much surprises you," Dean replies drily, lacing his fingers together at the small of Castiel's back and tugging him closer.  In response, Cas applies several light kisses to his neck and the underside of his jaw.  Dean sighs comfortably, letting his eyes close wearily again, "You ever met someone named Arakiel?"

Castiel pauses where he is mouthing at Dean's pulse and lifts his head. His monotone is slightly incredulous, "Arakiel?"

"S'that a yes?"

"I've never met him, but he is a legendary fallen angel.  One of the original two hundred who fell with Lucifer," he replies, momentarily abandoning his kisses, "He's the one who opened Lucifer's first cage and he should have been the first knight of hell, except that he was imprisoned before he could cut out his grace."

"Well, he wants to kill us," Dean sighs, wishing he hadn't mentioned it; he would have preferred to lie here and fall asleep with his lover lavishing affection on him.   

Cas makes a thinking sound, resting his chin on Dean's shoulder, "If he finds you again, I need you to call me immediately.  Arakiel is a serious problem."

"Yeah, sounds like.  But I don't wanna talk about it right now," Dean tells him. He doesn't even want to think about it right now, so he lays his hand against Castiel's jaw and guides him in to a kiss.  The angel, as usual, alternates between tasting like fresh water and nothing at all.

His hands slide caressingly over Dean's chest as he kisses him exactly the way Dean taught him.  He's not tired because he's never tired, and at the moment he wants Dean's attention.  He kisses him insistently, making an encouraging sound when Dean's hands slide from the small of his back to his ass.  Dean gives him an unsubtle grope as he tugs him closer, rolling his hips upward against the swell of his backside. The angel can feel how tired Dean is, how clumsy his movements are as he fumbles with the buttons of his shirt.  He mercifully helps him pull the shirt off, his breath catching slightly as Dean's warm hands move over his chest and ribs.

"You're falling asleep," Cas murmurs against Dean's jaw as he slides his hands under the hem of his t-shirt.

"No, no, m'not.  Seriously, m'not," the man struggles to open his eyes and focus on him, frustrated by his own exhaustion.  His body wants the overwarm angel on top of him, but it also wants very badly to sleep.  Supine as he is now, his libido is only barely winning out as Cas experimentally grinds his hips down against his.  Dean groans quietly against his mouth before kissing him again distractedly. 

Castiel can feel him fading and pulls away, giving him a firm, tender kiss before sliding off of him and tugging at his trouser leg, "Take these off and lie down the right way.  You need to sleep."

Dean whines plaintively, though he is secretly slightly relieved, "C'mon Cas.  I'm good to go."

"You need to sleep," he repeats, undoing the front of his jeans and tugging them down.

"You're giving really... _really_ mixed messages."

Castiel smirks slightly, giving his half-hard length a light caress through his boxers before pulling his jeans off completely and tossing them aside.  Dean's breath catches and he complains, "That's not even fair."

He lets Cas coax him out of his t-shirt, then somehow musters the energy to get under the blankets.  A moment later, Cas joins him and presses up flush against his back, conforming his body to the curve of Dean's spine.  Normally, Dean prefers to be the big spoon, but at the moment he is content to have his lover at his back.  This happens more than he'd care to admit and always has - they'd always stolen moments here and there, and often times Cas made the adult decision to put Dean to bed.  It doesn't even sting his pride now to be brushed off and tucked in, though he makes a point of manly tantrums most times.  He falls asleep without further protest, distantly aware that Castiel is kissing the back of his neck and hoping that it gives him interesting dreams.

Down the hall, Gadreel is awake and markedly more lucid than he had been the previous night.  He watches as Sam sorts through his duffle, tossing aside the worn clothes and replacing them with clean items from his dresser.  There's a methodical fastidiousness as he works, though the practice is still somewhat new to him; he is used to having all of his clothes, all of his possessions even, stowed in the trunk of the Impala.  Having a stable home and a broadening wardrobe is a new experience.  He doesn't think that he will ever really progress beyond the minimalist lifestyle that he was raised in, but he can't help but appreciate having his own washing machine and more than three pairs of jeans.

He is trying to ignore his lover's intensity because it makes it hard to think clearly.  When he looks at the other man, he's immediately struck by how much he loves him and wants him in his life.  Obviously, this is at odds with what he has decided is best for the former angel.

He finally raises his eyes to Gadreel's, resolved to do the right thing and break up with him. Maybe it would only be temporary and the blond would wander back into his life after a couple years exploration. _If you love something set it free, and all that crap_ , he thinks, feeling his pulse quicken.

"I'm having a hard time," Gadreel confesses unexpectedly, forcibly derailing Sam's train of thought.  Seeing the obvious confusion, Gadreel adds meaningfully, "With everything."

Sam is surprised by the instantaneous panic zinging around his chest and the bile he can feel rising in his throat.  He is ready to break things off, but the prospect of Gadreel doing it first makes him immediately second-guess his decision.  In his mind, Gadreel wanting to leave means that he won't come back, which is something he's not yet ready to even consider.  He blinks slowly, then licks his lips before asking, “What’s ‘everything?’”

The other man sighs and slouches forward almost dramatically, “Being human.”

“Oh… uh, what… what part of it?”

“Everything.  Everything is so much harder and so much more complicated,” he complains quietly, meeting Sam’s eyes, “I don’t know what I’m thinking half of the time, and if it’s logical or based purely on emotion.  I’m not used to feeling human emotions.  It’s very confusing.  I hate it.”

There’s a certain petulance to the former angel’s voice, as though he takes the intensity of his new emotions very personally.  There’s an almost childish quality to his delivery that sounds out of place coming from a full-sized, muscular adult male, particularly layered over his strange, slightly stilted speech mannerisms.

“I don’t like being scared or upset or lonely…” he says, looking at Sam like he expects him to disagree, “I don’t like not knowing what’s right or wrong, and I don’t like having empathy.   It's very awkward to feel scared because someone else is scared or sad because they are sad.  When I was an angel, everything was so much clearer.  More absolute.”

Sam tucks a pair of socks into his duffel, then walks over to sit beside his lover on the bed.  He reaches for his hand in (what he tells himself is) an amicable way, meeting his eyes calmly,  “What’s bothering you specifically?”

He isn’t sure he is ready to hear the answer; if it’s about being confused about attractions to other people or not knowing what he wants out of his life, Sam doesn’t have a good answer for him.  

“The ambiguity.  The man  whose ghost possessed me.  I logically know that what he did is reprehensible, and I feel an intense pity for the woman that he killed.  Before, I wouldn’t have thought beyond that… I would have just said that he was wrong and that he deserved to go to hell, or that he deserved to be trapped on earth to relive his mistakes over and over.  I would have been pleased that he killed himself.  Everything that he did was wrong and actually… almost evil.”

“But?” Sam prompts.

“Having been possessed by him, I was privy to the inner workings of his mind, and I saw the twisted logic and I realize that he was broken… and very… sick.  He didn’t think that what he was doing was wrong, and in his own way he had good intentions.  It doesn’t matter in the real world, obviously… but he was just… he was not made right.  Something in him was just… I don’t know, Sam.  Misaligned.  Poorly constructed.  And while I know that what he did was wrong and I wish that it had not happened, I can’t help but feel sorry for him.”

Sam nods slowly, absorbing that.  He feels momentarily foolish for having been focused on something as petty as a relationship, and narcissistic for thinking that Gadreel had been thinking about him at all when his beloved’s mind had been occupied with actual moral issues and human struggles.  He sighs quietly, then says, “Well… that is… that’s being human.  You can hate something or someone, but still understand it or think it has redeeming values.  Very few people think in terms of black and white.”

“It’s exhausting… and I feel guilty.”

“Why?”

“I feel as though feeling pity for the murderer is belittling the victim or her experience.  She didn’t deserve anything that happened to her.”

“You can be sad for both of them, that’s okay,” Sam says in an effort to be reassuring, “And it’s actually really important that you’re trying to understand everything that happened, rather than just writing it off as good or bad, or letting one of us tell you what to think.  Like… I think sometimes Dean and I get so stuck on just … _getting things done_ that we don’t really think about that stuff.  We should, y’know?”

Gadreel nods, sighing.  He leans lightly against Sam in silence for a moment, just looking down at their linked hands.  Sam can smell his shampoo (which is the same as his own) and the slightly musky scent of his skin, and he knows that he wants to stay close to him like this.  It would be easy to just forget that he wants what’s best for the former angel and just do what feel best to him.  This is the wrong time to ask this, but the thought is weighing on him and his nerves are jittery.  Going on only a few hours of sleep in the back of Impala doesn't help, nor does the blond's continued closeness.  He can't just let Gadreel cuddle with him thinking nothing is wrong.

“Do you…” Sam breaks off briefly, trying to think of a smooth way to segue into what he needs to ask.  There’s no real clean transition, so he just forces the question out in one smooth rush, “Do you think it would be easier for you if you could work through these things on your own?”

Gadreel shakes his head, “I’m not particularly good at it, as you can see.”

“I mean just… in general.  Do you think it would be easier to figure out being human… and dealing with people, life, y’know… if you weren’t with Dean and me?”

The blond turns the full intensity of his dark green eyes on Sam, his expression difficult to read.  It’s obvious that he’s caught on to some shift in their conversation, though he doesn’t understand the direction that Sam is taking.  He blinks slowly, then asks suspiciously, “Why?”

Sam takes a bracing breath, determined to move forward, “I was just thinking that maybe you and I should take a bit of a break.”

“Like a holiday?”

“No… more like… I think that maybe with everything that’s going on, and while you’re figuring everything out… maybe we should break up for awhile.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

Sam exhales through his nose, realizing that this is not a conversation that lends itself to euphemisms or any kind of indirect language; as this is Gadreel’s first relationship, he hasn’t learned the cliches or the nice things that people say to spare each other’s feelings.  He turns more to Gadreel, still holding his hand, and explains, “It means we wouldn’t be together.”

“No,” Gadreel says flatly, not even looking hurt or mortified as he shakes his head decisively.

It is the strangest reaction that Sam has ever received to a breakup - he’s never had someone just _tell him no_.  He can’t help but laugh a little at the absurdity of it, “No?”

“No,” he repeats, eyebrows raised challengingly.  

Sam is surprised by the wave of relief that breaks over him at Gadreel’s forceful refusal.  He pulls him into his arms and kisses him soundly, sliding his hands from his shoulders up to either side of his face.  He stays close to him, bumping his nose against his affectionately, catlike.

Gadreel looks at him in abject confusion when he pulls back, one eyebrow raised almost cartoonishly as he stares at his lover.  He cocks his head to the side much the way that Castiel might in the same situation, then asks, “What is wrong with you?”

“Just…” Sam laughs a little, shaking his head, “I just love you.”

“So you wanted to ‘break up’ to me?”

“With you,” he corrects, taking his lover’s hands again, “And… I dunno.  Just… I feel like I just sort of made a lot of assumptions… and I made a lot of choices for you.  Like… I just assumed you’d want to be a hunter and that you’d want to be with me.”

“I... _do_ , though,” Gadreel says, still confused.

“Yeah… but, you’re human now.  You don’t really know who you are or what you like, who you like.  I just thought maybe you could use some time to figure things out and experiment without worrying about me,” Sam says a little sheepishly.

The blond looks at him thoughtfully, rubbing his thumb against the side of Sam’s hand slowly.  The contact is grounding and familiar; he usually feels better when he’s touching his lover in one way or another, even if it is just standing close enough that their shirt sleeves brush.  It reminds him of when they shared a vessel and his grace was wrapped around Sam’s soul, and they were like one person.  There’s nothing quite like that now, though sometimes when Sam has his arms around him and their hearts are beating together in almost-unison, he can imagine that he’s hearing his heartbeat from within him.

He wonders sometimes if having sex would feel the way that it had felt to be together before.  He doesn’t think it would; he knows enough about human sex to know that it’s dirty and repetitive, pleasurable but not exactly magical.  Loud, wet.  Sticky.  It doesn’t mean that he wouldn’t try it, but he isn’t so naive as to think that it would fulfill what they had been before he had lost his grace.

He hates being human.

“I don’t want that,” Gadreel says quietly, leaning in to kiss him.  His strong-boned, serious face is solemn as he warns him, “Don’t ever try to make that decision for me again.”

“Got it,” Sam affirms quietly.

"I'm sorry I'm a terrible hunter," he adds sheepishly.

“You’re just not very good at…. working with other people,” Sam offers delicately delicately, laughing a little.

“You don’t trust me.”

Sam had wondered if he would be taken to task for that remark from their earlier fight.  His smile fades quickly as he leans forward, his pointed features pulled into an earnest expression, "I didn't mean that.  People say things they don't mean when they fight."

"Angels don't," Gadreel says in a tone that asserts again that angels are better, "Angels say exactly what they mean in a fight because it's more effective."

"Well, I've never been an angel, so that doesn't apply here.  I was a jerk and I just wanted to hurt your feelings because I was mad.  I'm sorry."

He's surprised by how much easier it is to have these discussions with Gadreel than it is with his family. Perhaps his lover's naivete makes him more willing to be open, or perhaps it's just simply the fact that it's not Dean or his father so there is no Winchester Battle of Wills to be won.  He can actually just explain himself, apologize, and expect that Gadreel isn't going to be saving up mistake tokens for future fights.

"I forgive you," Gadreel says readily, though he is too newly human to really understand wanting to hurt someone else just out of spite.

Sam nods, then leans his forehead against Gadreel's, "Y'know, I like that you don't really hold on to being angry.  It's nice.  You're like the only one."

The other man nods, "If there's anything I learned from my imprisonment, it's that it's terrible when someone won't forgive you even after you've apologized.  I wouldn't do that to you."

Sam is surprised by the simplicity of Gadreel's logic.  He wonders sometimes how his own became so convoluted.  He kisses the other man affectionately, “Thanks for that.”

He figures that he has a few hours before Dean rouses himself and bundles them back into the car.  After that, he isn't sure how long their separation will be, or when Dean will let Gadreel go on another hunt with them.  While he knows that the former angel has immense potential as a hunter, it's impossible to overlook the mistakes he's made in the field.  He pulls him closer and presses a kiss to his jaw, just below his ear, and sighs quietly.  Perhaps he could just be a Man of Letters.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On to 10-3: Maneater!


End file.
